A Long Way to Fall
by prospectkiss
Summary: After a one-night stand, a stalker becomes obsessed with Edgeworth and begins wreaking havoc on his life. Phoenix tries to help and support him through the ordeal. Amidst the turmoil, the two lawyers try to cope with their feelings for each other, drawing closer to one another...
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: _This was originally written for the Phoenix Wright kink meme and is still ongoing.

This story is slightly AU in that it takes place after the events of _Trials and Tribulations_, but does not acknowledge the events of _Apollo Justice_. Either the _AJ_ events don't happen at all, or happen much later than the measly two months the games give us.

* * *

_**Part One**_

"Objection!"

The sound rang out across the courtroom, full-throated and confident. Phoenix Wright threw out his arm, pointing dramatically at the figure on the witness stand, and listened to the fading echo of his voice. Silence rushed in its wake, filling the gallery with hushed energy, an electric crackle of anticipation.

This was the moment, that glorious instant when all the pieces fell into place, when the defense attorney revealed what had really happened. This was when the courtroom was his stage, when he could turn his case around and revel in the shocked gasps of the audience. This was when his faith, his unyielding belief in his client, was finally rewarded.

Oh yes. This was the moment he lived for.

The woman on the witness stand, a scrawny forty-something bank teller who kept nervously cracking her knuckles, gave him a wary look. On the other side of the courtroom Prosecutor Payne mopped his brow, his sweat-slick forehead gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Looming over them all, gavel in hand, the elderly judge had his eyes comically wide as he waited for the defense to continue.

Phoenix lowered his arm, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"Miss Reynolds, what you've just said is a little problematic, don't you think?"

The bank teller narrowed her eyes, and a loud _pop_ was heard as she flexed her fingers. "What do you mean?"

"Yeah, what do you mean, Nick?"

Maya Fey stood at his side, her face scrunched up in confusion. The expression made her look younger, reminding him of the seventeen-year-old she had been when they first met. Though she was still wide-eyed and round-faced, the past year as the Master of her village had given Maya a slightly harder, more adult look. Or perhaps, since they saw each other less and less these days, Phoenix was better able to notice the slight changes as Maya matured. He was still getting used to seeing her in her Master's robes. They were longer, reaching past her knees, and a deep, rich purple color, with a lighter shade trim. Most noticeable was the red talisman hanging from her neck, surrounded by her beads, symbolizing her new status.

When he first started his career Phoenix never imagined a spirit channeler would serve as his legal aid. But these days he was learning to treasure the few times she could pull herself away from Kurain to visit him.

He nodded at the papers in front of her. "Give me the testimony from yesterday."

She handed him a short bundled stack, which he leafed through as he spoke. "Miss Reynolds, yesterday you told the court you had worked at Three-Fifths Bank for over twenty years."

"Yes, that's right."

"And you stated that you are an observant employee, an _excellent_ employee, with no bad marks on your record."

"I suppose I did, yes."

"But just now you said you were afraid of being fired from your position."

The witness said nothing; she glowered at him, her mouth set in a thin line.

Phoenix tapped his fingers against the papers, finally finding the quote he was searching for. "If you are such an 'outstanding worker,' as you claimed yesterday, then why did you state today that you were terrified of being let go? What reason would the bank have to fire you?"

"Objection!" Payne's voice sounded shrill and tinny as he interjected. "Mr. Wright, what does this line of questioning have to do with the robbery your client committed?"

Phoenix fixed him with a glare. "As I've already stated, my client had no reason to attempt petty robbery." He leaned forward and splayed his hands wide on the bench, making sure everyone would listen to his next words. "But Miss Reynolds does."

The court erupted into surprised murmurs. Payne looked positively floored. The bank teller clenched her hands so tightly together her knuckles turned white. Maya just shot him a mischievous grin, catching on to his plan.

The judge pounded his gavel furiously. "Silence! I will have order in this courtroom!"

As the whispers subsided, the judge turned his attention to Phoenix. "Mister Wright, you think the bank teller held up herself? Surely you can't be serious."

"I am serious," Phoenix replied, and couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face. "And don't call me Shirley."

He heard Maya's hand smack against her forehead. "That joke is so old, Nick…"

The judge just frowned. "You can be called whatever you like, Mister Wright, but please explain how you think the person who reported the robbery actually committed it."

He squared his shoulders back and drew in a deep breath. "My client, Trent Coates, has been a customer at Three-Fifths for several years. He is in sound financial health. He has no motivation and no need to steal two thousand dollars by holding up a bank teller."

His client, seated next to the bailiff, nodded enthusiastically.

"But our esteemed Miss Reynolds has such a need. She is in debt to the Tender Lender loan company."

The witness winced and cracked her fingers loudly, the sound sickening, like all the bones had snapped at once. Phoenix half expected her to point a set of mangled digits back at him.

Payne, finding his nerve again, slammed his desk. "What proof do you have of that?"

Phoenix met him head on. "My assistant and I paid a visit to their offices after yesterday's trial. If you'll recall, the loan company has accounts at this bank. Through her work, there is ample opportunity for Miss Reynolds to become acquainted with such a, er, reputable business."

_Reputable_ was not the word he would normally use to describe the lender. However, with Viola, the Cadaverini heir, still in charge of the organization, it would be unwise to refer to the mafia's front with anything less than respect.

The judge looked down at the attorney with a puzzled frown. "I'm afraid that's not concrete proof, Mister Wright."

"But this is." Phoenix held up a receipt from his case file. "A record of a loan obtained by Miss Reynolds, for which she is overdue."

He shuddered as he considered what would happen to him were _he_ late with a loan repayment to Tender Lender. He had been terrified enough just accepting their tea. Viola had been cooperative, handing over the papers with an unnerving smile. "We're always interested in… working with you… Mister Wright," she'd said with that peculiar, chilling laugh.

"Th-That's none of your business! You had no right to look into my financial records!"

Miss Reynolds gripped the railing of the witness stand, eyes darting frantically around the room. Phoenix wondered which she was more afraid of: representatives coming to collect, or having it publicly known that she was in debt to such people.

Phoenix shook his head. "This was your motive. You needed the cash quickly, and every day it was right there in front of you, waiting to be taken. But if you just grabbed it out of the till and ran, you'd get fired, right?"

Payne tried to signal the judge's attention. "This is just conjecture, Your Honor."

But all eyes were on the defense attorney.

Phoenix lowered his voice. "That's why you said you were afraid of being fired, isn't it, Miss Reynolds?"

The bank teller cracked her knuckles again.

"You needed to rob your own bank, you thought of it every day, but you were afraid of the consequences. Being fired for stealing money was always on your mind."

The prosecutor let out a loud snort and waved his hand dismissively. "A fine story, Wright, but I don't believe Miss Reynolds is on trial here."

The judge nodded. "You've described a motive, but need to present evidence to support this claim, or I will strike this line of questioning from the record."

They were both right. Phoenix knew all he had managed so far was to cast suspicion on the bank teller. But he needed to let the idea sink in, to show that another person was compelled to commit the crime, to allow his client to have reasonable doubt. He still had to present the final piece of evidence.

"Miss Reynolds, can you describe what my client was wearing the day you claim he tried to rob you?"

The bank teller straightened, regaining a modicum of composure. "He was wearing a big, bulky coat. Something you could hide away a lot of money in. Or something you could hide a weapon in."

"It's true, Your Honor," Payne said, latching onto the incriminating statements. "We have security camera footage that confirms his attire."

"So you saw my client wearing something that seemed sufficiently suspicious to you."

The witness nodded. "Yes. That's why I wasn't surprised when he said he had a gun in his coat and to give him all the money I could." She cracked her knuckles as she spoke, one by one. "I was terrified. I did as he said."

Trent Coates was having trouble staying in his chair. He was shaking his head wildly, his hair a blonde blur. The police had arrested him at home, on the accusation of the teller, though the stolen money could not be located.

Phoenix slammed his desk, furious; his client had endured suspicion and misery because of the lies of this woman. It was time to end this. "Miss Reynolds, _you_ were the one who pocketed that cash, out of sight of the camera, and pinned the blame on my client!"

Again the courtroom was filled with angry mutterings.

All the color drained from the teller's face. "No!"

He had her on the ropes. "You just needed the perfect scapegoat. You waited until someone you thought looked suspicious enough came into the bank and you claimed he held you up."

"But he did!" Her eyes were wide, her hands clenching and unclenching spastically. "He threatened me, and I pushed the robbery button beneath the counter, just like I was trained to do, and I gave him the money!"

And here it was: the moment Phoenix snatched his victory.

"If the events happened as you claim, Miss Reynolds, then why did you push the robbery button _before_ my client approached your counter?"

The only sound in the courtroom was a strangled gasp from the witness stand.

"What are you saying, Wright?" Payne had retreated, hunched over and mopping at his brow again.

Phoenix was a little taken aback; it seemed the prosecutor had lost his spark. Could he really admit defeat so quickly? He shook his head slightly as he answered.

"I'm saying you should pay more attention to time stamps. Compare the footage from the security camera, and the electronic report from the robbery button. Miss Reynolds pushed the button nearly a minute before Trent Coates even came up to her. Unless she's psychic, how could she have known he was going to rob her before he even talked to her?"

"I don't think she's psychic, Nick," Maya said as the gallery erupted once more.

Phoenix again pointed at the woman on the witness stand, who was shaking and wringing her hands. "You jumped the gun, Miss Reynolds. In your haste to frame someone else, you put your plan into action too early. Am I wrong?"

To their great surprise, the bank teller collapsed on the floor, sobbing, and confessed to the whole scheme. On a cue from the judge, the bailiff read out her rights and escorted her from the court. The proceedings wrapped up quickly, and Phoenix finally heard those words he'd been waiting for all day:

"The court finds the defendant, Trent Coates, 'Not Guilty.'"

* * *

The defendant's lobby was unusually still.

So often after Phoenix's trials, the lobby was a maelstrom of people laughing or crying or huddled together for support. Many of those times he had personal stakes in the trials – as a defendant himself, or defending his friends, or trying to stop someone else from being murdered. He was beginning to associate the lobby with intense feelings: adrenaline running wild, senses heightened, mind frantically trying to tie things together.

He wondered how many years of his life had been lost in this lobby due to emotional toil. Or, examined another way, how many years he had won, both in practical terms by not going to prison, and in a less physical sense by the enormity of relief that flooded through him when bad situations worked out for the best.

It might be better for his health if he stuck to simpler cases, like bank robbery.

Phoenix had just finished speaking with his client, who had to be escorted back to the holding facility for filing his release. The look of relief on his face had been palpable, filling the attorney with a sense of pride. Helping people, especially those who seemed like lost causes, never ceased to amaze him. It was thrilling; it was terrifying; it was the most incredible feeling in the world.

It felt even better if he got paid. He'd need to discuss compensation with his client soon.

He looked eagerly at the cushioned bench against the wall. He was exhausted, and he knew this peace would not last. Perhaps he could put up his feet and catch a quick nap while Maya went off to look for her cousin up in the gallery.

Then again, considering that the last time he fell asleep in the lobby he woke up with a lump on his head and temporary amnesia, he wasn't sure if he could actually let his guard down enough for a few winks.

He decided to take the risk and moved toward the seat when, as if on cue, the lobby doors burst open, spoiling the quiet.

"Mister Nick!"

Pearl Fey bounded across the tiled floor, caught him around the waist, and crushed him in an enormous hug, drawing an involuntary "Ooph!" out of him. Like her cousin, she too had grown in the last year, adding at least an inch to her height. The effect was mitigated somewhat since she left her hair down from the usual pretzel twist, allowing it to hang loose around her shoulders. She was still a skinny thing, but she was starting to grow out of her robes a bit; for a moment, Phoenix had a terrifying vision of a future Pearl spilling out of her child's dress like when she channeled her cousin Mia.

He hoped Maya – and himself – could handle Pearl going through the first years of womanhood.

"One day you're going to knock me out with that hug, Pearls," he said, ruffling the top of her head affectionately. "You know, I can't get used to you without your hair loops."

She finally let go in order to smooth her strands back down. "Mystic Maya and I are still _ex-spear-ah-minting_," she said, pronouncing the word carefully, "until we find a style I really like."

"We try something new every day," Maya added, a devious glint in her eye. "Most times it just becomes a tangle, so we end up brushing it out and letting it go free."

"Uh-huh." He ran a hand through his spikes, suddenly conscious of his own hairstyle.

Pearl tugged on his blue suit sleeve. "Mister Nick, I'm glad you and Mystic Maya won. You did a…" She chewed on her thumb, looking for the right word. "Oh! He said you did a 'commendable' job."

"Hmm? Who said what now?" As far as he knew, Pearl had been alone in the gallery, seated away from the other members. There were no other children in the courtroom. He felt a surge of protectiveness streak through him – _What strange men were talking to Pearls?!_ – until he realized that Pearl was acting perfectly at ease. She was still uncomfortable around strangers; whoever had spoken to her must have been someone she knew.

She smiled at him, big and bright. "Mister Eh-ji-worth. He and Mister Detective kept me company during your trial."

"Is that so?"

Phoenix felt his pulse quicken; he hadn't seen the prosecutor in a long time. Though he had returned from Europe several months ago, he was busy, so much that Phoenix wouldn't see him for weeks at a time. He still wasn't certain what had cut Edgeworth's travels short – something to do with his sponsor being caught up in some crime ring – but the city had re-instated him immediately, and made him a High Prosecutor to boot, which likely added to his workload.

"You should come say hello." Pearl pulled him to the lobby entrance, where a large figure stood just outside the doors.

He recognized Detective Gumshoe's ratty coat, freshly anointed with a new brown stain. Was it gravy? Or maybe oil?

The detective smiled at all of them. "Hey, look who's back!"

The burly man reached down and scooped Pearl up into his arms, and she let out something between a shriek and a giggle. He plopped her on top of his shoulders, her head nearly reaching the ceiling. Once he had her steadied, he beamed at Phoenix and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good job today, pal!"

"Thanks."

Gumshoe had been in high spirits for the last couple of months, ever since he and Maggey Byrde finally admitted their feelings for one another. He'd become more boisterous and, oddly enough, more competent at work. Phoenix had overheard several of the older officers whispering about how the 'little woman' was inspiring Gumshoe to do his best. They made a cute couple, though it was a bit jarring to see them together. Maggey was nearly a foot shorter than Gumshoe, not quite reaching his shoulders. Phoenix sometimes wondered, with the size difference and all, how things worked out between them during their intimate moments.

Gumshoe moved aside, revealing another figure waiting behind him, and Phoenix couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face.

"Edgeworth."

"Wright."

His smile split into a full-fledged grin, and he saw the prosecutor's mouth twitch up in response. He hesitated, debating whether he should pull his old friend into a hug – a manly hug, of course – or refrain from any contact. Finally, he stuck out his right hand, hoping he didn't seem too awkward.

Edgeworth blinked, looking surprised, as though he was expecting something different. A moment later he returned the handshake, gripping firmly.

His hand was warm, comfortable, and Phoenix felt a familiar fluttering in his stomach. It was always like this with Edgeworth: jumbled feelings of admiration and concern, shared history fuelling each interaction, and a wish for something more than a tenuous friendship.

Even after all this time, he was still coping with his feelings for Edgeworth. He had looked up to the prosecutor ever since they were children, had kept him in his thoughts well beyond the limits of reminiscing about school-yard friends. Miles had ingrained himself so deeply into his life, had burrowed so thoroughly into his heart, that he had turned his whole life around just to see him again.

The more jaded side of him quipped that there was a romantic movie in the plot of his life – but one that left the audience unfulfilled and unsatisfied. Edgeworth had shown him no signs of feeling anything beyond friendship, and even that had been a struggle at first. The prosecutor had been so broken, so trapped in the chains of perfection and duty that to see him now, more open and more alive, was a peace Phoenix had no desire to disrupt.

The saying was _tis better to have loved and lost_. Phoenix had too much to risk the losing part. He would rather have Edgeworth in his life, as a friend, than to chance losing him again.

He pulled his hand back slowly, reluctant to lose contact. "So, what brings you around?"

Edgeworth sighed, his features pinching in annoyance. "Yearly peer reviews. Payne is up for evaluation, and I needed to observe one of his trials for the report." He looked aside, watching the detective chat with Maya. "Gumshoe mentioned he was facing you today, and I thought it would be a good opportunity."

Ah. That helped explain why Payne gave up his fight so quickly. He likely didn't want to risk looking even more foolish by protesting the obvious evidence; it would look bad on his record. Phoenix was relieved to be a private defense attorney, since he was only accountable to himself and his client. The politics of the Prosecutor's Office were a nebulous and mildly disturbing game.

"Well, I hope you don't go too hard on him. He's had a rough day." Phoenix felt a swell of pride that Edgeworth would choose to watch one of his trials.

"So it appears." Edgeworth's voice had a slight mocking tone, and he returned his attention to Phoenix, smirking. "Though you shouldn't congratulate yourself too much. Any prosecutor with half a brain would have caught the error you presented in trial today and refused the assignment."

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. "Then does that mean the Prosecutor's Office is filled with brainless idiots?"

Edgeworth gave him a flat look, clearly waiting for Phoenix to exclude him from that statement.

He laughed. "Come on, you know I don't mean _you_," he said, shrugging. "Someone would have figured it out sooner or later. I'm just here to make sure it was sooner."

The prosecutor hesitated, as though considering his next words carefully. "Just pointing out the error would have been enough to exonerate your client. Why did you go through the trouble of implicating the teller?"

Phoenix frowned slightly. "Well, even if it did free him, he would still be under suspicion. Until the true culprit is found, the initial suspect is never really cleared."

The initial trial system had rendered the notion of _innocent until proven guilty_ almost obsolete. It was one of the reasons Phoenix had felt compelled to take up law: to help those with no one on their side.

"I had to find the whole truth, Edgeworth. Nothing else would have put this case to rest."

Edgeworth nodded, grey eyes shining with something like understanding, and Phoenix felt a jolt run down his spine. The prosecutor's look was piercing. "Not many would have had the integrity to follow through."

Phoenix smiled, warmth spreading through his chest.

"Hey Nick, are we going home or what?"

Maya's voice interrupted their conversation. Gumshoe had returned Pearl to the floor, and Maya clasped her hand tightly. When all eyes turned on her, she seemed taken aback, but rallied quickly. "We still gotta pack, you know."

She was smiling, but there was something melancholy in her tone, and Phoenix, in a rare moment of insight, understood what she was feeling.

They were going back to Kurain this evening, on the late train. Over the past week she and Pearl had strewn their belongings all over Phoenix's guest bedroom; he half-way suspected that between them they had more robes and sandals and hairbrushes than most of their village combined. There was certainly more of it now that Maya was the Master. He did not envy them the task of cramming it all back into two suitcases.

He _was_ jealous that at least they had each other for company. Tomorrow he would start watching his calendar again carefully, waiting for their next visit. It could be weeks from now.

He sighed, rubbing his hand behind his neck. "Yeah, I guess we should get going." He glanced sideways at Edgeworth, an idea springing to mind. "I don't suppose we could trouble you for a ride?"

Edgeworth lifted his brows, some smart retort ready to spill across his lips; but he looked over at the Fey girls, and his expression softened. "It would be a tight fit," he said, slowly.

"Do you have your own bus, Mister Eh-ji-worth?" Pearl looked intrigued, her head tilted as she considered the prosecutor driving one of the city transports.

Maya let out a snort of laughter. "No, Pearls, busses are for lots of people going to the same place. Mister Edgeworth drives his own sportscar."

"Oh." She bit her thumb again, looking away in embarrassment.

"It would be my pleasure, Miss Fey." Edgeworth bowed towards Pearl, causing her to flush a deep red. He looked over at Maya. "I'm sure the Master of Kurain would prefer a private car as opposed to a city bus."

Maya stiffened. "Mister Edgeworth, you- you don't need to treat me any differently." She did her best to sound normal, but there was something low, almost lonely, in her voice.

Edgeworth looked at her for a moment longer, then abruptly nodded. "Of course."

Phoenix held out his hand toward Pearl. "Thanks, Edgeworth," he said, trying to diffuse the awkwardness.

They said their farewells to Gumshoe and headed toward the prosecutor's parking lot. Edgeworth walked ahead of them, pace brisk, and the three of them trailed behind, Pearl holding on to each of their hands. She immediately clambered into the tiny backseat when the doors were unlocked. Phoenix followed in after her, after Maya refused to budge from the front seat.

One day, Phoenix vowed, one day he would be able to afford a car such as this. Rich leather seats, a sleek high-tech dashboard, and an engine that almost purred with power. Of course, he would choose a more subtle color than race-car red; something nondescript, like black, or if he was feeling classy, a deep blue. He met Edgeworth's eyes in the rearview mirror, and felt his face heat up, caught so blatantly admiring the vehicle.

He shifted his attention to Maya, who had buckled herself in and immediately swiveled in her seat to talk to Pearl. "Hey, if you're just going to turn around, you should sit back here," he said, sounding more annoyed than he meant as he tried to cover his embarrassment.

Maya waved her hand, dismissing him. "A gentleman always lets the lady sit in front, Nick." She turned toward Edgeworth. "Isn't that right?"

Once more he caught Edgeworth's gaze in the mirror, and saw the quick smirk. "I'm not certain a cretin such as Wright could ever learn how to be a gentleman."

Maya laughed, and as Phoenix was about to retaliate, Pearl tugged on his sleeve again.

"Mister Nick, you- you _are_ a gentleman with Mystic Maya, right? You have to treat your Special Someone with love and respect!"

She had a long look on her face, one that made Phoenix feel as if he had disappointed her. She was still clinging to the idea of him and her cousin being a couple, as if seeing them together, like in a fairy tale, would dispel all the woes she had in her life.

He sighed. "Pearls, I–"

Maya interrupted him. "Pearly, remember what we talked about." Her words were stern, her face unusually serious. Pearl gave her a small, morose nod. The car fell quiet, the air heavy with an unspoken tension. Only the soft stirrings of violin strings, coming from the radio, broke the silence.

As Edgeworth shifted into first gear and pulled out of the lot, Phoenix leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. "Can you take us to my office, Edgeworth? I want to drop off this paperwork before we head home."

The prosecutor scowled, briefly looking back at Phoenix before quickly shifting his glance away. Phoenix blinked in confusion, wondering what he had done to sour Edgeworth's mood.

"Don't get in the habit of making me your chauffeur, Wright." But he turned left anyway towards the attorney's office. "As it happens, this is more convenient for me."

"You gotta be somewhere on my side of town?"

Phoenix waited for a response, but Edgeworth kept his attention on the road. The atmosphere in the car was still subdued. He put on his best cheeky grin, trying to lighten the mood. "You got a date or something?"

There was a part of him that didn't really want to hear the answer to that question; it was selfish, he knew. Then again, if Edgeworth surprised him and answered _yes_ then maybe he could put his clinging wish to rest. If hope was left in Pandora's Box for too long, unfulfilled, it would spoil and turn to poison. Better to let it escape along with the monsters.

Edgeworth's eyes flashed at him in the mirror, something wary flitting across his expression before he settled into a glare. "Not that it's any of your business, but no." His mouth pressed into a thin line, and Phoenix thought he'd pried all he could out of him, but after a moment he continued. "The Prosecutor's Office is holding a ceremony at the Gatewater Hotel."

"Ooh, that sounds important," Maya piped in, trying to sound more cheerful. "Are you getting another award?"

"No. Regardless, I expect it will be nothing but a waste of time."

"Oh." She faltered, unsure of whether to prod the prosecutor any further, and then turned around again, facing the backseat. "That reminds me, Pearly, we gotta plan for the novice sessions. Which training halls do you think we should use?"

She and Pearl started talking about buildings and waterfalls, the little girl perking up. Phoenix stayed quiet, watching the city roll past the window, letting his eyes wander over to Edgeworth's reflection. In the low light, the grey hair that framed his face looked shiny and almost white, blending in with his pale skin. He reminded Phoenix of a ghost, that perhaps he really had chosen death and that the last couple of years were all in Phoenix's head.

Sometimes the prosecutor seemed so far away.

Someday, Phoenix feared, he may not have the chance to see Edgeworth anymore, due to work, or travels, or maybe he would get on the prosecutor's nerves so much that Edgeworth finally refused his company.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the lead weight in his stomach. He listened to the sound of the Fey girls' chatter, not really paying attention, and to the classical music, the sound soothing. The ever-so-slight vibration of the vehicle against the road, a testament to its restrained power, was almost hypnotic.

He only became aware of his surroundings again when the car was quiet and the gentle vibration had finally stopped.

"Wright. You're here." Edgeworth's voice was low, sounding amused.

He abruptly lifted his head from the window and found the prosecutor staring at him in the rearview mirror. The car was parked in front of his office, and Maya and Pearl were already heading into the building. He rubbed his eyes. "Was I asleep?"

Edgeworth scoffed. "If you kept regular hours, you wouldn't need naps."

"Says the work-a-holic who sleeps in his office." Phoenix scooted forward, resting his elbows against the two front seats and moving his head into the space between them. "Thanks for giving us a ride, Edgeworth."

Edgeworth shifted in his seat, angling slightly to look at Phoenix, and his shoulder brushed across Phoenix's arm. "You're welcome."

There was a pause, a weird moment where neither of them moved. Phoenix looked at the prosecutor, saw the slight lines of stress near his eyes. He wanted to reach over and run his finger across them, to feel his skin, to give him some measure of contact-comfort; but he kept his hands still. He was the first to look away.

"You should take a break sometime. Have a little fun." The thought of Edgeworth relaxing, laughing, or just bantering together with him was cruelly enticing.

Edgeworth tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Unlike you, I have obligations to keep. I can't skip work for some meaningless amusement."

Phoenix sighed. At some point Edgeworth would need to remember that he, too, was human, and that constant work would derail his spirit. "Well, think about it at least. I don't want my friends to die of heart attacks before they're sixty."

He slid back before Edgeworth could respond. The door opened with a smooth motion and he stepped out, but stuck his head back in one last time. "Thanks again."

Edgeworth leaned his head back against the headrest. "Goodbye, Wright."

He shut the door and walked toward the office, wondering when he would see the prosecutor again. His footsteps were heavy. Later this evening he'd escort the girls to the train station, and his life would be calm and quiet and dull.

Only when he heard the engine start did he turn around, and he watched the red car roll away from him.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Part Two**_

Edgeworth pulled into the hotel parking garage, moving slowly up to the third floor, and found an empty spot near the elevators. He shifted into park and turned the engine off; then, after a moment's consideration, he turned the key just enough to leave the radio on. A mournful oboe drifted through the empty space of the vehicle, and he let his head fall back against the leather headrest again.

The prosecutor considered himself a calm, disciplined man, and he took great care to view the world through the lens of truth and logic. But, contrary to the façade he presented to the world at times, he was not made of stone, and he cursed himself for his weakness as he realized he would need a moment to compose himself.

He ran a hand through his long bangs, letting the strands sift through his fingers and fall back into place automatically, and dragged his palm over his face, feeling tired in body and spirit. His stomach was still churning, a result of the rollercoaster his emotions had been riding all afternoon, all due to one man.

_Wright, Wright, Wright_.

Drawing in deep breaths, he sorted through the day's events in his head, trying to discover where things had gone awry.

* * *

The morning had been busy, if largely uneventful. His latest trial had wrapped up one day short of the three-day allotment, affording him an opportunity to file the paperwork early and begin preparations for the next case. If he worked quickly, he might even finish in time for that idiotic ceremony the Prosecutor's Office planned this evening at the Gatewater Hotel in a misguided attempt to boost morale. Everyone was expected to put in an appearance, though he had not yet decided whether to attend.

He was buried deep in ledgers and evidence lists, folders splayed across his shiny oak desk, when a booming knock on his office door startled him, causing him to nearly spill his tea over the papers.

Irritated, he righted his cup and wrenched the door open, preparing scathing remarks for whoever stood on the other side.

"Cavemen have more manners than the people in this–"

"Mister Edgeworth, Sir!"

Gumshoe stood on the threshold, breathing hard, his chest puffing in and out as though he had literally run over to the prosecutor's office. He held up a file and grinned triumphantly. "We got the results back on the Katzenberg case. You won't believe what the lab found!"

His complaint halted, a look of intrigue crossed the prosecutor's face. "Indeed?" He opened the door wider and stepped aside, allowing the detective to trundle in and take a seat on the sofa. Edgeworth held out a hand for the file as he passed.

Gumshoe started to stretch his legs across the plush cushions, but at a stern glance from the prosecutor he straightened back up. "Yup, the victim's wound was consistent with bludgeoning, just as the lady confessed."

"So I see. Wait a moment… the report says the victim was hit with enough force to completely cave in the back of his skull. A wound like that would require a tremendous amount of strength in the attacker." He frowned, his finger tapping against one arm as he thought over the results.

"That's the big deal, Sir. We're all trying to figure out how that little old lady could have done it. We're even opening a betting pool." The detective had a mad gleam in his eye. "The most popular guess is that she's just freakishly strong, but I think that she had some sort of deadweight rigged."

"…It was her son."

The answer was simple. The woman did not have the strength to render such a brutal blow, but her son was a professional weight-lifter. He suppressed a shudder as he imagined being on the receiving end of the man's wrath.

"Yeah, and then she– What? Him?" Gumshoe spluttered as his entire conception of the case was turned on its head. "Then why did his mother give a false confession?"

"Isn't it obvious, Detective?" He handed the folder back with a rueful smile. "She's protecting her son."

"Oh." Gumshoe's bushy brows knit together, and he rubbed a hand along his stubbly chin, considering.

Edgeworth folded his arms. "Tell the officers to pursue evidence against the son. I will not bring this case to court if they continue with the accusation against his mother." He looked at the detective's thoughtful expression and smirked. "I hope you didn't wager too much in that pool."

Gumshoe snapped to attention. "No, Sir. Just a batch of weenies. Maggey wanted to try her hand at cooking them anyway. Isn't she the best?" His mouth quirked up, as if he was trying to suppress a big grin.

Edgeworth resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as juvenile as that action would be. Really, the detective was insufferable lately. Nearly every day he had to endure some new story of how Miss Byrde was so thoughtful, or encouraging, or good with her hands, which was frankly more than he ever wanted to know about the woman. If the detective devoted half as much time to his career as he did to her… But he knew he was being unfair. Gumshoe was doing well, almost enough to warrant a salary _increase_ for once; and deep down Edgeworth was pleased for the man and his burgeoning relationship.

The real root of his annoyance was two-fold. Unlike the detective, Edgeworth did not have time to pursue a romantic partner. The Prosecutor's Office was still reeling from scandal and corruption, and until additional personnel could be hired the prosecutors that remained had to endure extended caseloads. He was left with precious little free time, hardly enough to make a serious attempt at a relationship of his own.

And if Edgeworth were to admit the _whole_ truth, he also held a bit of resentment toward the detective. After chasing Miss Byrde for nearly two years Gumshoe had finally caught her, his persistence rewarded, and his world had apparently turned into a saccharine land of sunshine and rainbows. It was a sentiment Edgeworth doubted he would have the privilege of experiencing himself.

Even if he had room in his schedule for dating, the person he was most drawn to was uninterested.

Gumshoe, his mouth still twitching with happiness, interrupted his musings. "Oh yeah, your secretary asked me to give you a message."

"Hmm?"

"Something about a painful review being due soon, Sir."

The reviews were another attempt by the Office to curtail any further misdeeds. As a High Prosecutor, it was his duty to observe the trials of his peers. While he was certain the evaluations would result in several censures, there was nothing particularly painful about the assignment…

Ah.

"Nearly correct, Detective. I'm to observe Prosecutor Payne for his evaluation."

"Oh! Well, I know he has a trial this afternoon." At a quizzical raise of the prosecutor's eyebrow, he hurried on. "I had to testify for him yesterday. That spikey-haired lawyer kept objecting and dragging things out–"

"Wright was on the defense?"

"Yeah, he and that top-knot girl were…"

Edgeworth let the detective ramble on, no longer listening. He was trying to quell the rush of blood that coursed through him at the mention of the defense attorney. Wright would be there, with his triumphant grin and his heart on his sleeve and his idealism riding high, reckless and quick-thinking and more than a match for someone like Payne.

…Why could he not bury these accursed _feelings_?!

He only realized Gumshoe was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a reply, when the office was suddenly silent. He could feel a flush threaten to appear on his cheeks, caught in his less than professional thoughts.

"My apologies, Detective, but I must ask you to leave now. I have a lot of work that needs to be finished." He headed for the door in an attempt to escort him out.

"Oh, sure, Sir. But are you going to go to the trial later?"

He scowled. "Perhaps."

Gumshoe grinned as he headed into the hallway. "Well, I'll see you there, then, if you do decide to come. I wanna know why that guy robbed the bank!"

He made a non-committal noise as he shut the door with a quiet click. Already he was planning how best to finish up the paperwork and get to the trial, just like how not so long ago he wrapped up his affairs and flew half-way around the world to see Wright as quickly as possible.

He was such a fool.

* * *

The gallery was fairly full by the time he and Gumshoe made their way into the stands. He had intended to seclude himself in a quiet corner, one with a good view of Prosecutor Payne – and Wright. However, after standing at the top of the stairs, looking for an appropriate spot, a familiar little girl in a pink and purple robe stood and waved her arm frantically. Gumshoe headed toward her and he reluctantly followed.

"Hey, Little Miss Fey! Are you up here by yourself?" Gumshoe looked around, as if expecting to see someone else hovering near the girl.

He recognized Pearl, Miss Fey's younger cousin. He had only met her a scant few times, usually under stressful and emotional circumstances. Something looked different about her, though he couldn't identify precisely what it was.

"Hi Mister Detective, and, um, Mister Eh-ji-worth." While she smiled at the detective, she turned shy toward the prosecutor, ducking her head and looking at the floor.

Edgeworth realized he still had a hard expression on his face, the glare that usually made his opponents quail and others reconsider approaching him. He chastised himself, wondering if he would ever be comfortable with children, and offered her a small smile. "Good afternoon, Miss Fey," he said, nodding toward her slightly.

It seemed to work; she gave him a hesitant smile and motioned them both to sit down. Gumshoe sat between them, and he was grateful that he kept her occupied. As he opened his briefcase, pulling out and arranging the papers he needed, he caught snippets of their conversation. Gumshoe was telling more stories about him and Miss Byrde, and Pearl seemed absolutely delighted to hear them, her cheeks turning rosy and eyes wide and adoring.

He looked up as people began filing onto the courtroom floor. The defendant, looking pale and slightly panicked, was escorted by the bailiff. The elder Miss Fey followed him, wearing a new longer robe and eye-catching charm around her neck. Behind her was the attorney himself.

Edgeworth felt a lurch in his chest, like his heart was being drawn out of him. The first time he saw his childhood friend in court, all grown up and oddly striking in his blue suit, it stirred feelings he'd not considered since adolescence. Even now, that same mixture of apprehension and fascination simmered inside him when confronted with Wright.

He'd known from a young age that he had no interest in the opposite sex, that he was drawn to same-gendered partners. Once he had overcome his past and made peace with his current path in life, he had allowed himself a friendship with Wright, with the question of _what might be_ always lurking in the background. But he'd seen the way Wright had looked at his old college sweetheart, the young sister from Hazakura, and he realized the attorney did not share his romantic preferences. After a long night of reflection and rumination, sifting through the letters from a younger Phoenix that he never answered, he decided to let that desire in him fade away.

It had never been quenched completely.

"Oh! There she is now!" Pearl squirmed in her seat as she pointed at her cousin. "Doesn't she look beautiful in her new _sere-ah-money-all_ robes?"

"She sure does, pal."

"Now that she's the new Master, she can't spend as much time with Mister Nick. But that doesn't mean their love is any less!" She nodded sagely at the detective. "'Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'"

Edgeworth felt something icy run through his veins. He turned toward the girl, carefully keeping a neutral look on his face. "What's that, Miss Fey?"

She beamed at him. "They're 'Special Someones.' One day they're going to get married and have lots and lots of babies!"

He blinked, taken aback. Surely she must be mistaken. Maya Fey – and Wright? They had both known Miss Fey since she was a teenager, for goodness' sake! He glanced over at the pair behind the defense's bench. Maya was organizing papers and bundles of evidence, and Wright was picking through them all, his lips moving silently as if reminding himself of each one's importance.

They were seven years apart in age. But as he considered Maya, glancing between her and Wright, he realized in not so very long that would become _only_ seven years. She was growing into a beautiful woman, one with a respectable position and a significant history with Wright.

The idea of Wright becoming attracted to her suddenly did not seem so far-fetched.

Before he could make a reply, Prosecutor Payne finally entered his side of the courtroom, his witness trailing behind him. Edgeworth schooled his expression into a glare and turned his attention to the prosecutor. There would be time later to ponder Wright's affairs – right now there was work to do.

If Payne received a particularly vicious review… at least Franziska would approve.

* * *

Edgeworth finally turned off the radio; the oboe had faded away and an obnoxious horn section had taken up its melody, turning the somber tune into something too bombastic for him to tolerate.

He kept drifting back to that moment in front of the attorney's office. Wright had been so close to him, and it would have been easy to just lower his head and claim the kiss he craved, and for an instant he'd almost believed Wright _wanted_ him to do so.

He should have refused to give them a lift.

He snatched his keys and left the car, moving resolutely toward the stairwell next to the elevators. He needed to stop this foolish nonsense.

The Gatewater had certainly come a long way from its roots as just another business lodge, transforming into a respectable high-class hotel. The marble floors gleamed and the lush décor gave the place a certain opulence. Near the entrance was a recent addition to the hotel: a lounge named _Verona_. It was the kind of place that had a cozy, intimate, and noticeably _expensive_ atmosphere. As he crossed the reception area Edgeworth heard a soft tune float across the lobby. He paused, listening. A small band was arranged on a raised stage inside the lounge, and the warbling trumpeter was playing a tasteful, jazzy arrangement of the _Steel Samurai_ theme.

Despite himself his lips quirked up.

The prosecutor's ceremony was a pointless formality; attendance was expected but, Edgeworth reasoned, not strictly mandatory. He would gain a few precious hours to himself if he skipped it. And even though he had paperwork to finish and more prep work to do, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to have a glass of wine and relax.

_You should take a break sometime._

Like one of the youths following the piper, Edgeworth found himself drawn to the strains of the music, leading him into the lounge.

Inside it was dark, with deep blue curtains drawn across the windows and round mahogany tables dotted around the floor. A bar lined the far wall of the room, one which displayed only premium spirits. Edgeworth removed his jacket and took a seat at the counter, pleased it was shining and free of sticky spots. The bartender handed him a glossed menu, and Edgeworth was surprised to find a number of unconventional wines offered. He ordered a _barbaresco_, a rich red wine he'd not had since his time in Europe.

The song wound down, melting into another jazzy arrangement. As Edgeworth sipped his wine he looked around the lounge, keeping an eye open for any other prosecutors. Aside from the band and the bartender, a handful of people were scattered across the room: a small group of well-dressed individuals to one side, talking amongst themselves; a young couple at a table close to the stage, whispering to one another; a few persons seated alone, watching the show or staring into their cups.

Last of all, his gaze fell on the only other person at the bar a few seats away from him: a young man, sharply dressed in a sleek black Armani suit. He was very pale, as light-skinned as the prosecutor himself, with long black hair that fell gracefully to the tops of his shoulders. He glanced at Edgeworth, quickly looking him over, and something about that action made Edgeworth feel a light flush spread across his face. Their eyes met, and the man pulled his lips back in a slight half-smirk, teeth flashing briefly. Edgeworth, unwilling to back down from a stare, kept his expression carefully blank. The man finally looked away, taking a pull on a short glass filled with scotch or whiskey or some other sort of golden liquid.

When he looked into his own glass, Edgeworth realized his breathing had sped up.

He turned his attention back to the musicians. A woman in a slinky emerald-colored dress moved to a standing microphone and began singing in a low, smoky voice, and for a moment Edgeworth felt as though he were transported to an old forties night-club.

As he took another sip of wine, he noticed the young man stand, drink in hand, and walk toward him. "You mind some company?"

Edgeworth took a moment to consider his answer. He had wanted to be alone to soothe his frayed nerves, but there was something quite… alluring about the man. Edgeworth gave him a curt nod, and he seated himself in the chair next to him.

They both turned to watch the singer, who lightly swayed her hips in time with the rhythm. A swell of relief flowed through the prosecutor. He'd feared the man would insist on holding a conversation right away; at least now he would have a moment to collect his thoughts. The angle allowed him to take surreptitious glances at the man next to him. He had a sharp profile with prominent cheekbones, though his hair fell around his eyes a bit, softening the severe look.

What kind of person was he? In that kind of suit, he either came from wealth or had earned himself quite the career. Did he spend his days locked up in a boardroom, or somewhere more exciting? Was he an honest man? Someone with integrity? Someone loyal? Someone who would go to the ends of the earth just to chase after a phantom from their past?

Edgeworth closed his eyes momentarily, taking long, slow breaths.

As the song reached an interlude, the young man angled himself toward Edgeworth. Now that he could see both of his eyes, Edgeworth discovered they were an unusual shade of brown, almost maroon. He realized, with some chagrin, that he had been expecting blue.

The young man had an inquisitive look on his face, and something else lurking behind it that the prosecutor couldn't classify.

"Business or pleasure?"

Edgeworth wondered if that phrasing was intentional. "I'm afraid you'll need to clarify."

"Are you here for business, or for pleasure?" Once again, those dark eyes roamed over the prosecutor, lingering here and there, and Edgeworth was uncertain if he was being sized up or, as others might put it, checked out.

He sat just a bit straighter. "I was here for business."

"And now?"

"And now," Edgeworth said, swirling his wine and meeting the man's penetrating look, "I'm not."

A ghost of a smile flitted across the young man's features, and he held out a hand. His grip was smooth and strong. "I'm Christopher Banks."

"Edgeworth."

The hold on his hand tightened slightly. "Only Edgeworth?"

"Miles Edgeworth."

His hand was finally released. "A pleasure to meet you, Mister Edgeworth."

"And you, Mister Banks."

"Just Christopher."

Not _Chris_, he noted, but _Christopher_.

They lapsed into silence, neither comfortable nor completely awkward, a low current of _something_ arcing between them. Edgeworth was keenly aware of his impromptu companion, who crossed his leg and took another sip of… actually, now that he was near enough, he could identify it as brandy. He was impressed; most young professionals preferred either obscure beers or gaudy designer drinks.

Edgeworth took a final sip of his wine and placed the empty glass on the counter. He signaled the bartender. "Another, please."

Christopher also waved his hand. "One more of these too," he said, sliding across his glass and pulling out his wallet. "Put them both on my tab."

Edgeworth felt a twist in his stomach and he looked over sharply. "That's not necessary."

Christopher lifted his eyebrows, eyes widened slightly. "My apologies. I had thought, perhaps…" He began to rise from his seat.

Edgeworth grimaced, flustered. "No, that's– What I meant was–" He let out a quick sigh, defeated. "I'll get them both."

Drinks refreshed, Christopher gave Edgeworth a shrewd look. "The view is better over there," he said, heading toward a secluded table in the corner.

Edgeworth hesitated. The view was decidedly _not_ better there. As he realized the implication of the invitation, he felt his face heat up.

_Think about it._

He picked up his glass and his jacket and seated himself next to the young man at the table.

A quick, victorious grin appeared on Christopher's face before it settled into a subdued smile. On stage the singer returned to the microphone, her sultry voice crooning the first few lines of an old Peggy Lee song.

"So," Christopher said, relaxing into his seat, "for someone who's not here for business, you don't seem to be enjoying yourself much."

"Mm." Edgeworth stared at his drink, wondering just what the hell he was doing.

"Something on your mind?" Christopher's tone was deliberately light.

Edgeworth shook his head. "Not precisely."

"Some_one_, then?"

He looked sideways at Christopher, reticent and wary, and the man just smiled again, sympathetic. "I see."

In the quiet that followed, Edgeworth picked up a couple of lines from the song.

"_Why don't you do right,_

_Like some other men do_?"

He felt something cold and rueful roil through him.

_Why don't you do Wright?_

He barked out a short, bitter laugh. Christopher glanced at him, appearing puzzled and slightly worried.

Edgeworth leaned back, his shoulder brushing against the other man's. "It's just…" He lifted his hands helplessly, shaking his head. "I don't believe they're interested," he said, a degree of misery in his voice.

Christopher picked up his glass. "Well," he said, slowly, "he's missing out, isn't he?" He took a long drink, and Edgeworth didn't bother to protest the gendered assumption.

He took a long, steadying breath. "So, Mister Banks," he began.

"Christopher."

A beat.

"Christopher. What is it that you do?" It had been a long time since Edgeworth found himself in this sort of conversation, in this delicate dance of words and subtle meanings.

"I'm VP of Business Development and Executive Strategy for Three-Fifths Banking." Christopher had a self-deprecating grin. "Want me to translate that into a more common language, like English?"

"Not especially," Edgeworth said. Boardrooms it was, then.

He let a sly smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "I think you'll be needing a new teller, though. One was recently indicted for theft and frame-up, and probably a host of other charges."

Christopher seemed taken aback. "How on earth do you know something like that?"

"There was a trial today." At the confused look, he continued. "I'm a prosecutor."

"Oh. I– I see."

Edgeworth smirked, feeling as though he had the upper hand. "A man named 'Banks' going into banking," he mused, gently mocking. "How perfectly predictable."

To his amusement, Christopher rose to the bait. "With a name like 'Miles,' you should be a long distance trucker," he said. There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he lowered his voice. "Though that could be tedious. Maybe something dangerous, like a stunt driver. Something more… stimulating."

There was that electric spark between them again. Edgeworth crossed his leg, mirroring the other man's posture, and drank deeply from his glass. The music slowed down, transitioning into something with a strong bass, the musician plucking out the sounds like heartbeats.

They listened for a while, making idle chatter. Edgeworth was somewhat surprised by himself; he was usually no good with small talk. But the wine was running warmly through him, the music was intoxicating, and Christopher was smiling at him and brushing against him, and that undercurrent of something darkly exciting and sensual kept flowing between them.

Eventually Christopher tilted his brandy back one more time, finishing his drink. Edgeworth held up his own wine, about to consume the last of it, when Christopher reached over and clasped his hand around the lip of the glass.

"May I try it?"

Edgeworth lifted an eyebrow, but nodded. Christopher slid his hand down the stem, skimming his fingers against the prosecutor's as he relinquished the glass. He watched Christopher drain the wine, his throat bobbing quickly, tongue snaking out to catch the last drops. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until Christopher caught his eye again.

A long moment passed, thick with tension. Christopher moved his hand again, grasping one of Edgeworth's own. "If you want, I would be interested in your company."

There was a pause, that breathless instant at the top of the rollercoaster before the plummet.

Christopher's voice was low again. "We could go somewhere."

The world seemed to slow down. Edgeworth could hear the music, rhythmic and pulsing; the murmurs from the other patrons, a susurrus chorus; the clink of glasses, like locks sliding in their doors. His vision narrowed to the man next to him, the warmth of his fingers. Most of all, he felt his blood rush through him, feeling alive in a way he'd almost forgotten.

_Have a little fun._

Edgeworth turned his palm and grasped Christopher's hand, voice equally low. "Or we could stay in the hotel."

Christopher looked up abruptly.

Edgeworth's gaze was piercing. "Just once."

Christopher nodded slowly, like he was negotiating terms. Edgeworth squeezed his hand tighter.

"Just for tonight."

They stood simultaneously.

"There is a store in the hotel," Christopher said. "I can get supplies." The prosecutor was pleased to finally see a red flush bloom over his features.

"I'll get the room," Edgeworth said, and silenced any protest with a glare.

They parted in the lobby, Christopher toward the courtesy store and Edgeworth toward the reception area. A room on such short notice might be difficult to obtain. Fortunately, one was available on the fourth floor due to a cancellation.

Christopher approached the counter, a small black bag in hand. "Well?"

Edgeworth handed him one of the card keys. "Room 403. I'll meet you there."

Once the room was paid Edgeworth made his way up the stairwell, heart pounding. He paused outside the door, reminding himself that he was free to do as he wished, that he was a healthy male with needs to satisfy, that he had no one but himself to answer to.

That he needed to let go of a dream.

He knocked softly, a warning, and stepped inside.

He didn't notice and didn't care what the room looked like. Christopher straightened from where he had been leaning over a bedside table, jacket already removed, and their eyes locked. Edgeworth closed the door behind him with a deafening click.

They met at the edge of the entryway. Edgeworth could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Christopher grasped Edgeworth's upper arm, encouraging. "Are you sure?"

_Not at all._

In answer, Edgeworth slid his hand over Christopher's cheek and brought their lips together.

Edgeworth had denied himself such contact for too long. Every little movement felt like a great surge of electricity through over-sensitized nerves: lips brushing, soft and wet. Tongues sliding, tasting like sweet wine and brandy. Bodies pressing together, all heat and taut limbs and hard strength.

Their fingers fumbled with buttons and knots, revealing more and more skin to explore, to touch, to kiss. Christopher was stripped to his waist, lithe and pale, and he had Edgeworth against the wall, undoing the end of his dress shirt. He dragged his warm palm against the line of skin between the shirt halves, pausing at Edgeworth's waist, teasing, tantalizing, then finally plunging down and pressing against his arousal.

Edgeworth hadn't moaned like that for far too long, either.

Christopher drew his fingers along Edgeworth's length, slowly tracing the hard outline, and then he slipped away all together. With ruthless efficiency he undid Edgeworth's belt and fell to his knees.

Edgeworth braced his palms against the wall, feeling lightheaded. This was going so fast; this was what he wanted; this was too much; this–

He let out a shaky gasp as Christopher blew a line of warm air along his exposed length. Stunned, he watched Christopher pull a foil out of his pocket, tear it open, and roll the condom down. He tunneled his fingers along Edgeworth, pulling once, twice, and then all Edgeworth felt was close, wet heat.

_Oh god._

It was good – all lips and agile tongue and gentle suction, moving in a slow, languid rhythm. Edgeworth was panting, eyes closed tight, willing himself to keep his hips still, to keep from thrusting into that wonderful mouth. One hand was wrapped around him while the other traced meaningless patterns over his thigh, the touch light and just distracting enough, and Edgeworth wanted to remember this trick, to keep someone right on the edge just like this, torturous and perfect. He let his hands drift away from the wall, tangling into the other man's hair.

And felt a sharp pang when he realized there were no spikes, just long, smooth strands. He wrenched his eyes open, and the ones looking up at him were not a deep, guileless blue, but were dark and almost red.

"S-Stop."

Carefully, he shifted back and pulled Christopher to his feet. He leaned his forehead against the other man's shoulder, obscuring his face.

To his surprise, Christopher chuckled lightly. "Too much?"

When Edgeworth made no reply, he gave a good-hearted sigh. "I understand," he said, completely misunderstanding.

Edgeworth tilted his head, breathing hard, and met those dark eyes again. They really were quite handsome. _Christopher_ was quite handsome. Most importantly, he was here, in this moment, with him. He was being incredibly unfair, to Christopher and to himself. Could he not enjoy himself without thinking of what couldn't be?

Edgeworth moved his lips and slowly, thoroughly kissed them both senseless.

He could. He _would_.

They made their way to the bed, shedding the rest of their clothes, and sank onto the soft pillows. There was nothing but warm skin and low sounds of pleasure, gentle strokes and swallowed groans, and the inexorable pull toward completion. And when Edgeworth carded his fingers through long threads of hair and looked into dark eyes, he felt a thrill of desire; and when he heard the words _I want you to fuck me_ murmured in his ear, he found it easy to press a lingering kiss and nod. He knelt behind Christopher, and he could admire the smooth stretches of pale skin, listen to his moans; he could feel his muscles relax and welcome him, hear each hitch of his breath; he could hold on to slender hips and surrender to each encouragement to go faster, harder, deeper.

When they finally climaxed, one after the other, for once Edgeworth felt nothing but pleasure.

* * *

After they could finally sit up, moving slowly, gingerly, they cleaned up as best they could with warm towels. Few words were spoken, a strange awkwardness overtaking each of them. Now that the tension between them had finally been resolved, Edgeworth found they did not have much to talk about. All of their banter had been a prelude to this act.

Edgeworth had never done something this impulsive before. Relationships were difficult enough; he had no idea how to act in a situation like this.

Christopher rolled down the bedsheets. "Are you going to stay?" His voice was light, carefully neutral.

Edgeworth paused, expecting the question but uncertain how to answer. He glanced between his clothes, the bed, and the man he'd just taken to bed.

"I'm taking a shower first," he said, hoping his attempt to stall went unnoticed.

Christopher settled into the sheets, dark hair splaying across the pillows. "If I'm asleep when you get out, I'll see you in the morning." He turned off the lamp, throwing the room into darkness.

For the second time that evening, under the warm water spray, Edgeworth mulled over recent events, tracking how things had gone so quickly and so far.

This… tryst had been a welcome release. Christopher had given him something he had not realized he so badly needed, and for that he was grateful. But aside from a great physical attraction, his feelings for the man did not run deeper. He had no intentions of taking this any further.

What was the term for a situation like this?

Right. A one-night stand.

The next morning would be even more uncomfortable. What if Christopher wanted something more? Edgeworth frowned. He was not ready for a relationship, not until he finally let go of Wright.

_Wright._

He felt a low throb in his chest, not quite regret, but more like longing.

No, the feelings were not the same. Perhaps one day things would change, and he could pursue something greater with a man like Christopher.

But not now.

Outside the shower, Edgeworth lingered in the entryway. The light from the restroom was just enough to see into the room. He looked over at Christopher, whose breathing had settled into a slow, deep rhythm, eyes closed, peaceful.

He would save them both a horribly awkward and confusing time if he just left now. Part of him felt like a coward, but the rest of him reasoned that it would be the most painless way to extricate himself.

He had said just once. Just tonight. There was nothing more Christopher should expect from him.

Edgeworth began dressing quietly. On the desk he found the hotel stationary and wrote a quick message for Christopher. He tried to ignore the mocking voice in his head reminding him that he was good at writing notes and disappearing.

_Christopher,_

_Thank you for a memorable evening._

_-M.E._

He considered adding something more, but in the end left it at that, and placed the note on the nightstand. With one last look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed, he closed the hotel door.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Part Three**_

Phoenix awoke to the sounds of sirens and gunshots.

He turned over on the office couch and stared blearily at the television. An old crime movie was playing, the terrible, low-budget kind that should have rested quietly in its grave but kept being resurrected for day-time programming. Two police officers appeared onscreen, trying to coax a man into surrendering with cringe-inducing dialogue.

At least the noise made it feel like the office wasn't so empty. He listened for a minute, feeling masochistic, and questioned whether he would rather be lonely or be forced to endure more lines such as "You criminal scum!" or "Drop dead, copper!" When the commercial break finally arrived, Phoenix reached beneath his stomach for the remote and switched the screen off. The silence that followed was almost deafening.

It had been a week since Maya and Pearl returned to Kurain.

"When will you be able to come back?" he'd asked as their train pulled into the station. The platform lights were painfully bright against the night sky, shielding them all from the darkness just down the tracks.

"I don't know yet, Nick," Maya said, her arm around Pearl's shoulder. She leaned down toward her cousin. "Pearly, why don't you go ahead and pick out some good seats for us? I'll meet you in a few minutes."

Pearl nodded, stifling a huge yawn. "You should be alone to say goodbye," she said groggily, though she couldn't muster her usual blushing enthusiasm through her drowsiness. She gave Phoenix a hug and dragged her pink suitcase behind her onto the train.

Phoenix turned back to Maya. This was always the most difficult part of their visits, those awkward last moments before departure. He never quite knew what to say. It wasn't like a romantic movie, where the hero gives his love a sweeping kiss and a tearful farewell; nor was it as simple as a quick friendly wave and a 'see you soon.'

"I'll try to–"

"You should–"

They stopped at the same time. Phoenix shifted his weight, rubbing his hand behind his neck, and Maya slumped her shoulders, laughing quietly to herself. An instant later, Phoenix found himself crushed against her, her hands holding tightly to his back.

"We'll be back as soon as we can, I promise," she said, muffled against his jacket.

Phoenix circled his arms around her in return, his hold just as firm. "I know."

It could be weeks before he saw them again. Months, even.

She leaned back just enough to look him in the eye. "Don't get mopey while I'm away. You gotta smile for all those people you have to save, remember?"

She sounded just like her sister.

"And don't let those elders boss you around too much," he said, voice tight.

Maya smiled brightly. "Are you kidding? I'm the one who gets to boss _them_ around," she said, just emphatically enough that Phoenix wondered how much of that was really true.

"Well, just remember you can call me anytime you need to. Or want to." He pulled his arms back and rolled her suitcase to her. Their hands met on top of the handle. "I'll miss you."

Maya looked at him, her expression unnaturally serious. She seemed older in that moment, more like the adult she really was than the teenager she perpetually acted like. There was wisdom in her eyes, bolstered by generations of Fey leaders. She was at once the Kurain Master, intuitive and insightful, and just Maya, his silly, dear friend.

Before he could say anything more, Maya shifted up on her toes and pressed a swift kiss to Phoenix's cheek.

"I'll miss you too, Nick."

She moved to the edge of the platform and stepped into the train's open doorway, then turned and waved. Phoenix lifted his hand, waving until the train was just a small dot against the black horizon.

As he finally sat up on the couch, stretching muscles that had gone sore, he fervently hoped Pearl hadn't seen the last part of their goodbye.

Slowly, Phoenix was reclaiming his life. When the Feys visited, they tended to dictate his routine: go here, watch this show, buy that food, no _more _food, take us there, do this thing and that other thing… It was hard to imagine what his life used to be like before them. Now, without them, he suddenly had more time than he knew what to do with. Sometimes the freedom was daunting.

It was also difficult to accept cases. Without Maya relentlessly driving him to represent a client, he tended to just wait around in the office, listless. The only offers he'd received in the past few days were from obviously guilty clients who tried to persuade him to set aside his ethics for promises of lucrative payment. As long as he stayed cooped up, cleaning the bathroom and staring at the television, he would find no worthwhile causes. If he wanted to keep Maya from worrying, he needed to pick up a case on his own.

To meet someone truly in need, he'd need to make a trip to the detention center downtown.

Just like the lobby in the courthouse, the detention center always evoked strong emotions in Phoenix. He keenly remembered when he was held on suspicion of murder, feeling abandoned and alone. Mia had been his champion, a ferocious angel in a mini-skirt determined to rescue him. And even when he was on the other side of the glass in the visitor's room, he'd seen so many important people in his life trapped there: Maya, scared and mourning her sister; Larry, babbling incoherently and begging him for help; even Edgeworth, stoic and reticent, forced to finally confront his worst nightmares.

_Edgeworth_. Phoenix hadn't seen the prosecutor since the night the girls went home. He hoped the awards party or whatever it was at the Gatewater went well; as pretentious as Edgeworth could sometimes be, he hated pointless ceremonies. Phoenix smiled faintly, picturing the prosecutor scowling and grumbling about hauling home another trophy.

The prosecutor's building wasn't too far from the detention center; he could probably get there just as quickly on his bike as he could in a taxi, and it would be good exercise. He could stop by Edgeworth's office and say hello.

He felt a rush of anticipation. Now that his schedule was freer, maybe he could convince Edgeworth to quit working until midnight and spend a little time catching up. Maybe dinner, if he was lucky. Even prosecutors had to eat sometime, right? Though Edgeworth might expect more than just an all-you-can-eat hamburger buffet.

Feeling far less lethargic and more perked up, he grabbed his jacket, locked the door, and hopped on his bicycle, pedaling downtown with a slight smile on his face.

* * *

The detention center was a mess of suspects and officers, and none of the stories Phoenix heard piqued his interest. Perhaps it was insensitive of him, but after the Engarde debacle he was hesitant to represent any person he was not reasonably certain was innocent.

As he unfastened his bike, he was consoled by the fact that, with the rate of crime in the city and the fast pace of trials, there would most likely be a new crop of potential clients in a couple of days. He could try again soon.

At least now he could visit Edgeworth with a clear conscience.

It was hard not to feel a little out of place in the Prosecutor's Building. Few people were dressed in simple suits like him; he was awash in a sea of expensive, gaudy fashion. Phoenix wondered, not for the first time, if a prosecutor's prestige was dependent on their abuse of style.

The elevator ride up to the twelfth floor was a halting journey. People entered and left the lift at every level, often with loaded carts or bulging bags and briefcases. Phoenix was reminded of the story of the tortoise and the hare: there was a whirl of activity and people blustering about here, like they were in the midst of a race. He smirked; he might go more slowly sometimes, but at least he won his races.

Finally, the doors opened on Edgeworth's floor. A receptionist was seated at the end of the hallway nearest the elevator, acting as both secretary to the prosecutors and as traffic director. She looked up from her computer screen as he approached her desk, tucking an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"Can I help you?" She pursed her lips and gave him a cursory glance, not recognizing him.

He gave her his best smile. "Is Edgeworth in?"

She arched one of her eyebrows, looking him over more carefully. "Are you the one sending him those messages?"

"What messages?"

She stared at him a moment longer, as though she weren't sure if she could trust his apparent confusion. "…Nevermind. High Prosecutor Edgeworth is in his office, room 1202."

She held out a small envelope. "If you're going that way, will you give this to him?"

"Sure."

"Thank you."

He turned the envelope over in his hands as he walked down the hallway, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. He remembered writing letters just like this, old-fashioned hand-written messages to the young 'Demon Prosecutor,' asking him to write him back, to tell him the newspaper articles about him weren't true, that he was still a good person. Edgeworth had never responded.

These days almost everything except junk mail was delivered electronically. To send something by hand indicated some sort of relationship with the recipient, a personal connection: a card from a family member, or a letter from an old friend. Or a love letter.

He checked the envelope. It was addressed to Edgeworth but had no return listing. An irrational sense of jealousy trickled through him. He stood in front of the prosecutor's office, trying not to crumple the envelope, and told himself it was only a letter, that it could mean anything.

As he raised his knuckles to knock at Edgeworth's door, it was unexpectedly pulled open. For a second, he and Edgeworth stood on either side of the doorway, frozen in place – him with his hand in the air, surely looking like an idiot, and Edgeworth with his own fingers stopped on the knob and a frown on his face.

He had forgotten how good the prosecutor looked in just his waistcoat. His sleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms, and the black vest clung to his torso in a way that should have been criminal.

Phoenix swallowed hard and quickly moved his eyes up to the prosecutor's. "Hey Edgeworth," he said, lowering his hand and grinning.

The prosecutor blinked, his expression softening.

"Wright – what are you doing here?"

"Standing in your hallway, apparently." He rubbed the back of his neck, grin faltering. "If you're going somewhere, I can come back later."

"No, that's all right. It can wait." Edgeworth shifted, allowing Phoenix to step inside, and closed the door behind him.

Phoenix couldn't stop himself from turning a full circle inside the office, taking everything in. "I forgot how much pink you had in here."

Edgeworth brusquely moved past him, leaning against his desk with his arms folded. "Is there a purpose to this visit, Wright, or are you here just to ogle my décor?"

"You think I'd come all the way here for decorating tips?"

There was no return jab. Phoenix twisted around, expecting the prosecutor to launch into another sort of insult, but Edgeworth wasn't looking at him: he was staring at the envelope in Phoenix's hand, his expression filled with something like dread.

Phoenix's previous pang of jealousy turned into immediate, powerful curiosity. Whatever was inside, it was obviously something Edgeworth didn't like. He offered the envelope to the prosecutor. "Here. Your secretary asked me to give this to you."

Edgeworth set the envelope behind him quickly, as if it would burn him if he held onto it for too long.

Phoenix frowned. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"There's no need. I already know what it is." Edgeworth's voice was strained.

"Well?" Phoenix prompted, waiting pointedly for an explanation.

"Well, what?"

"What is it?"

"It's none of your concern, Wright." The words were said with finality, a warning that the topic was off-limits.

Now Phoenix was puzzled. What sort of letter could cause Edgeworth to be so wary? He had the impulse to reach over and rip into it himself.

"Edgeworth?"

"Please, just let it be." Edgeworth glared at him then, eyes clouded with unease, a light flush on his face. "It's not important."

Phoenix raised his eyebrows, skeptical – _Was it something that embarrassing?_ – but let the subject drop. "Okay, okay."

Edgeworth sighed, ducking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "_Is_ there a reason why you're here? Unlike you, I have things to do besides linger around in other people's offices."

"Oh, well, uh…"

Phoenix sensed a flush creep over his own face. He felt like a teenager again, stumbling through his words with a pretty girl, or the occasional boy. He was asking a friend to dinner; nothing difficult about that, right? Except that perhaps, down in that hopeful chamber of his heart, he was really asking for something more.

"Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?"

Edgeworth looked up, his grey bangs still obscuring his face somewhat. "With you?"

"No, with the Pope." Phoenix rolled his eyes; what kind of question was that?

He walked behind Edgeworth's desk, glancing out the window at the horizon. The sky was clear, just beginning to tint orange, the day's clouds fading away. "Since I don't have to burn money on burgers for a while, I thought it'd be nice to do something different."

He looked back at the prosecutor, who was staring at him with an unfathomable expression. Something about it made Phoenix's pulse speed up, just a bit. "And, you know, I haven't seen you for a while. We should catch up."

Edgeworth frowned slightly, eyes skimming over the stacks of papers and folders on his desk. "I can't do that right now. I have too much to do." He met Phoenix's gaze, and he actually looked regretful.

"Oh." Phoenix stifled a frustrated sigh. It had been a long shot.

"Was there anything else?" There was something low in Edgeworth's tone that Phoenix couldn't identify.

"Nah, it's all right. I'll just let you get back to work." He headed back toward the door, hoping he kept the disappointment out of his voice.

"Wright."

Edgeworth was behind him, closer than he usually stood. "Perhaps… another time?"

That was unexpected. Phoenix turned, feeling a surge of something hopeful course through him, unwilling to let the opportunity pass him by. "Yeah. Definitely."

He grinned again, and felt a pleasant churn in his stomach when Edgeworth offered him a small smile in return. He wasn't being blown off, or turned down. Maybe Edgeworth really did want to see him, too.

"I'll stop by again sometime."

And before he could stop himself, before he really thought about what he was doing, he reached his arm out and squeezed Edgeworth's shoulder, right where the waistcoat ended. The cloth was smooth, and beneath it, Edgeworth was warm.

"I'll see you later."

Edgeworth's eyes were widened slightly, but he didn't move away.

"Goodbye, Wright."

Phoenix quickly withdrew his hand and opened the door.

As he replayed the conversation in his head while he rode home, Phoenix felt his heart pounding a little faster than usual.

* * *

But slowly, like the tide washing away a castle on the shore, Phoenix's optimism eroded.

His calls to the prosecutor had gone straight to voicemail, unreturned, and in the police station or the courthouse the only acknowledgement he received from the prosecutor was a stiff nod. There was something more evasive about the prosecutor now, as though he were trying to limit his exposure to the world. Or to him.

Phoenix tried to ignore that ball of anxiety that settled into his stomach. Edgeworth had no reason to avoid him – in fact, he had seemed open to spending a little time with him. What was going on in the prosecutor's life that made him hide away? Despite his own self-assurances, Phoenix was getting worried.

He returned to Edgeworth's office two weeks later. Like with his last visit, Phoenix flashed a smile at the receptionist, who was trying to pour hot water into a mug and manage a stack of print-outs at the same time. Just as he reached her desk the papers tipped over, and he quickly bent down and caught most of them before they scattered all over the floor.

"Here you go," he said, straightening the stack and glancing down at her name plate, "Miss Fright."

"Thank you." She breathed a sigh of relief. "Those would have been a pain to reorganize."

"Is Edgeworth in right now?"

She gave him a sharp-eyed look. "You're Mister Wright, aren't you?" she said, speaking carefully. "The one who defended him some years back?" Phoenix had the impression she was evaluating him, deciding whether to refuse him access to the prosecutor.

"Yup, that's me." That knot of anxiety tightened. Had Edgeworth told her to keep him away?

The receptionist gave him a small, thin smile. "Then I'm afraid to say the High Prosecutor is not in his office. But…" She leaned forward, prompting Phoenix to do the same. "I can tell you that he is working from home today."

"He is?" It was unlike Edgeworth to work at home in the middle of the day. Was he sick? Or had something else happened?

Miss Fright gave no reply; instead she opened a desk drawer and pulled out a thermos mug, and poured the hot water into it along with a couple of tea bags. "If you don't mind me saying, Mister Wright, he could use a friend right now." She spoke lowly, worry seeping into her words.

She handed him the thermos. "And I think he could use this right about now, too."

Feeling more anxious and bewildered, Phoenix found himself pedaling toward the prosecutor's home.

Phoenix had visited Edgeworth's apartment once before, a year or so ago, before the prosecutor returned to Europe. _Apartment_, though, didn't feel like the right word – it was more like a luxury condo. The whole complex looked like it belonged in a travel brochure for some get-away retreat: all palm trees and immaculate grounds, gleaming white fixtures, private garages, and bright blue pools. He parked his bicycle outside, chained to the entrance gate, and felt more than a little self-conscious as he climbed the stairs to Edgeworth's door.

He knocked lightly. After a minute with no response, he knocked again, a little more forceful. "Edgeworth? It's Phoenix. Are you there?"

He waited another minute, glancing guiltily at the doors further down. He didn't want to disturb anyone with more shouting. Just as he was starting to wonder if the side window was unlocked, the door eased open a bit.

"Wright? What are you doing here?" Only a sliver of Edgeworth's face appeared.

Phoenix straightened, feeling his pulse pick up a bit. "I came to see you." He held up the thermos. "Can I come in?"

Edgeworth frowned. "That thermos belongs to my secretary, Hannah Fright." He sounded wary.

Phoenix shrugged, sheepish. "Well, I'm not your secretary, but she sent me with your tea."

The door closed, and for a second Phoenix thought Edgeworth had just shut him out again, that coming to his home had violated some unspoken rule. But then the door swung open and Edgeworth gestured him inside.

"Have a seat." Edgeworth took the thermos and pointed him toward the sitting room, and disappeared into the kitchen.

There was something intensely personal about being in Edgeworth's apartment. So often the prosecutor seemed like a machine, a ruthless dispenser of justice who never tired, never slept. But here he was surrounded by evidence that even Edgeworth was human: tall bookshelves meticulously organized, ranging from legal texts at eye-level to less dignified, more popular literature further down; a fluffy blanket draped over a wing-backed armchair; carefully framed pictures on the walls, some of famous paintings, others photographs of European landmarks.

He wondered if Edgeworth had taken any of those photos himself. He felt his mouth twitch up, picturing Edgeworth with a fancy camera, lining up for the perfect shot. The thought of the prosecutor having a secret hobby was endearing.

Phoenix plopped himself down on a plush sofa, admiring the gleaming electronics across from him. His own shabby couch and out-of-date television could hardly compare. He was captivated by the widescreen set; perhaps those terrible day-time movies could seem better on such an expensive screen.

As he was fiddling with the television remote, Edgeworth returned and handed him a plain white mug filled with the tea from the thermos. He seated himself on the sofa, leaving about a foot of space between him and Phoenix, and set his own mug on a tiled coaster on a glass coffee table that probably cost more than Phoenix's rent.

Phoenix sipped carefully at his tea, trying not to burn his tongue or make a face at the bitter taste. After a few tries he gave up. Edgeworth had leaned back against the cushion and tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. His fingers rose to his temples, rubbing in small circles.

This was the first good look at the prosecutor Phoenix had gotten in weeks, and it didn't make him feel as relieved as he'd hoped. Edgeworth wore only a dress shirt and trousers, more casual than Phoenix thought him capable of appearing – he was even missing his cravat. However, Edgeworth's face was long and drawn, looking haggard and weary, and he was paler than usual.

Phoenix nudged the mug on the table closer to the prosecutor. "You look like you could use this."

Edgeworth glanced at Phoenix, just a flash of troubled grey eyes, and that brief look was enough to tell that the prosecutor hadn't been getting enough sleep; the lines near his eyes were deeper. He finally leaned forward and wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the steam float into his face and breathing deeply.

"What do you want, Wright?" he asked harshly, drinking the tea in a few long gulps with his eyes closed.

Phoenix frowned, staring hard at the prosecutor. This wasn't Edgeworth taking a day off or simply working from home. This wasn't Edgeworth in work-mode, pulling all-nighters to perfect an argument for a case. He lacked his usual sharp-edged determination, the lively spark that drove him to seek the truth. No – this was Edgeworth beaten down.

Phoenix turned on the couch to face the prosecutor. "Edgeworth, what's going on?"

"What are you talking–"

He was interrupted by the shrill sound of a cell phone, which Phoenix only just noticed was resting on the far corner of the coffee table. It was one of the fancier phones that Phoenix openly scoffed at but deep down intensely wanted. Either Edgeworth had purchased it for himself or, more likely, it had been issued by the Prosecutor's Office.

Edgeworth pulled it over, scanned the caller identification, and promptly slid the phone back on the table, unanswered. Phoenix couldn't read the screen, but he could tell from the way Edgeworth scowled that the call was not welcome.

While Edgeworth was distracted, Phoenix surged ahead. "Is something wrong? You're ignoring all your calls, you barely say hi to me, and, well, you look like hell."

He tilted forward, trying to get a better read on the prosecutor. There was a tension between them; Phoenix felt like he was trying to pry open a door that Edgeworth wanted to keep shut, even if he locked himself into a fire, or a crypt.

The phone suddenly made a chirruping noise, signaling a text message. Before Edgeworth could pull it over to check, Phoenix grabbed the cell and hopped off the sofa, staying out of the prosecutor's reach. Amidst Edgeworth's vehement and slightly panicked protests he opened the text.

"Wright, that is private property!"

"You know you should really lock this thing–"

Phoenix cut himself off, mouth hanging slightly agape as he read the message.

_Pick up sometime you damn prick. Am I not good enough for you now? I'll be so good you'll beg for it. Just like a whore._

A second message immediately appeared.

_If you won't see me again, I'll tell everyone what a fucking whore you are._

Phoenix stared at the words, eyes wide with disbelief.

"M-Miles?"

Edgeworth yanked the phone out of his hands and skimmed the texts, his face flushing a light pink, and stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket. He strode over to his door with hardly a backward glance, and as he turned the handle to open it Phoenix finally snapped out of his confused stupor. He slid in between Edgeworth and the door, using his body to block the way out and slamming the door shut.

"What was that about? Who sent that?"

"Wright, get out of the way." Edgeworth's voice was dangerously low, but Phoenix stood his ground, undeterred.

"Edgeworth, who sent you that message?"

The prosecutor was infamous for his glare, and Phoenix nearly quailed under the full brunt of it. There was so much pain and fury and embarrassment hiding behind that stare that Phoenix marveled at how Edgeworth could contain it all.

He was struck by how much the situation reminded him of when he first tried to convince Edgeworth to let him be his attorney in court. At that time, Edgeworth had been adamant about keeping Phoenix out of his business due to some sense of personal pride, or a fear that the attorney would think less of him.

_Could this be the same?_

The prosecutor's hand was still on the doorknob. Some distant part of Phoenix noticed that, if he stepped forward, he'd be nearly eye-to-eye with Edgeworth, close enough for the prosecutor's hand to wrap around his back and pull him in. Close enough for Phoenix to hold just as tight.

Phoenix moved a half-step forward, just enough to grasp Edgeworth's forearm. "Edgeworth, if there's something wrong, I want to help you." He tightened his hold, looking at the prosecutor intently. "I always want to help you."

Edgeworth's eyes roamed back and forth between Phoenix's, and something in his expression wavered, like a droplet falling and causing ripples in a pond. Edgeworth turned and sat back down on his sofa, moving with less than his normal grace, with his elbows on his knees and his shoulders slumped forward.

Phoenix seated himself next to him, close enough to brush against the prosecutor, trying to convey with that little motion that he could open up.

"What do you want to know, Wright?" Edgeworth asked, sounding defeated.

Phoenix tried to smile. "I've already asked a couple of times."

When Edgeworth turned his head toward him, weary, Phoenix elaborated. "Well, let's start with that phone message. Is someone threatening you, or blackmailing you? Is that why you're hiding away in here?" Either possibility would explain why the prosecutor looked so ragged.

Edgeworth let out a long sigh. "None of this is to leave this room, Wright. Do you understand?"

He nodded, watching the prosecutor carefully.

Edgeworth leaned back, his arm reaching across his body to grasp at his elbow in discomfort. He stared down, not quite looking at the floor, but deliberately not looking at the attorney. After an uncomfortable minute he spoke, voice strained.

"Some weeks ago I made the acquaintance of a man at the Gatewater Hotel. We… spent an evening together."

He paused, and in that short moment Phoenix felt his mouth turn dry, felt the hard weight of those words, and understood what Edgeworth had really said.

_He slept with someone._

A cold blade of ice settled into his chest, into that spot where hope remained. Edgeworth had slept with someone. Someone… not him. In that split second the truth set in. Phoenix had wanted an answer, and he had told himself that he would be satisfied with whatever Edgeworth could give. His stomach churned, and as the hope froze in his heart Phoenix realized he was a liar.

He blinked, pushed himself to keep listening. "Oh." The word was emotionless, forced.

Edgeworth shifted, not quite flinching. "It was a moment of weakness." He looked briefly at Phoenix, as if waiting for a rebuke. "A mistake."

Phoenix tilted his head, struggling to pay attention through the fog clouding his thinking.

Edgeworth suddenly stood, rounding on Phoenix. "Go ahead and laugh, Wright." His face was contorted with a mixture of anger and shame, and wounded pride. "Laugh."

For a long time they just looked at each other, Edgeworth standing stiffly, and Phoenix sitting carefully on the sofa and taking a deep breath, clearing his head.

Edgeworth was his friend, his dear friend, and even if he would never be anything _but_ a friend, Phoenix cared for him. There was no one he trusted more, and if Edgeworth could admit something like this to him, it meant the prosecutor placed just as much faith in him.

Phoenix rose to his feet.

"Edgeworth, I'm not going to laugh. You can spend your time doing whatever-" _or whoever_ "-you want. It's okay."

It wasn't okay, really. But he kept his gaze steady.

Edgeworth looked back at him, anger dissipating, replaced with something sad and broken in his eyes. Or perhaps Phoenix was just seeing what he wanted. He straightened his shoulders, trying to stand tall and confident. Whoever Edgeworth had met must be doing _something_ to upset the prosecutor now. His friend needed help, and he would stand by his word.

When Edgeworth spoke again, there was a note of resignation in his voice. "I made it clear that it was a one-time affair. But he hasn't left me alone since."

Phoenix crossed his arms. "What do you mean?"

Edgeworth asked him to wait and moved to another room, leaving Phoenix standing alone. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to quell the roiling in his chest.

The prosecutor returned with an envelope like the one Phoenix had delivered to him not too long ago, a lifetime ago. "He found my address. I started receiving these at home and at my office."

He opened the envelope and handed Phoenix a pair of tickets to an exclusive art gallery. "Every day he sent at least two letters, along with some sort of gift."

As Phoenix examined the tickets, eyes bulging a bit at the prices listed, Edgeworth unfolded one of the letters and gave it to him. He skimmed it quickly, noting phrases like _see you again_, _meant to be together_, and _never felt this way before_. It was so clichéd he wanted to laugh, bitterly.

Edgeworth pulled out his phone. "The letters gave way to calls and texts – I don't know how he got this number. It's unlisted."

Another pause, as Edgeworth collected his thoughts. "When I told him to never contact me again, his messages became more desperate. Relentless."

"What do you mean?"

Edgeworth leaned back against a wall. "He's contacted me day and night, at all hours. Eventually I stopped answering my phone."

"Why didn't you change your number?"

"This is a state-issued phone. It's not a simple issue to change a prosecutor's number. And besides, I thought he would give up after a few days."

Phoenix frowned. "Obviously he hasn't. And he doesn't sound so nice anymore."

Edgeworth nodded. "It's escalated. Emotional abuse, name-calling, that sort of thing. I'm used to threats, but this was… more personal."

The prosecutor sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. "He's done his research, learned about my background. Learned my habits."

Phoenix looked up abruptly. "Is he stalking you?"

Edgeworth looked pained. "He's mentioned things that are a bit unnerving, as though he's followed me. I didn't want to believe he would do something like that. He seemed…" He trailed off.

So Edgeworth had felt some connection to the man after all. Ignoring that pain in his chest, Phoenix handed back the letter. "Why haven't you gotten a restraining order?"

"This is a personal affair, Wright. I have a reputation to uphold. I work with the very officers who would handle the report." Edgeworth held his arm again, looking away.

"What about Detective Gumshoe?"

Edgeworth scoffed. "Do you really think Gumshoe could be discreet with something like this?"

"He was discreet about when you- when you first went back to Europe, wasn't he?"

Edgeworth, eyes startled wide, made a low sound, mouth pulled back in a painful grimace.

That was a low blow, and Phoenix silently cursed himself for lashing out, no matter how betrayed or disappointed he felt. There was a wound there, an old pain that was scarred over. They never talked about why Edgeworth disappeared after the Skye trial; it was a topic they avoided by tacit agreement.

They both said nothing, an uncomfortable silence descending between them.

Was this how things would end? The attorney, embittered by a loss he'd chased after his whole life, throwing away their friendship? As painful as rejection might be, Phoenix felt like a splash of ice water had been poured over him as he realized how easy it would be to push Edgeworth away, to let Edgeworth slip away completely, and how deeply he never wanted that to happen.

He cleared his throat, moving to stand in front of Edgeworth. "I'm sorry."

Edgeworth just closed his eyes, silent.

Phoenix sighed. "Talk to Gumshoe. He looks up to you. If you ask him to stay quiet, he will."

After a moment, Edgeworth nodded.

The prosecutor looked utterly miserable, and Phoenix knew he was now responsible for some of that pain. He started forward, and after a second of hesitation he lifted his arms up and wrapped them around Edgeworth's shoulders in a tight embrace.

He felt Edgeworth tense up, muscles turning rigid at the close contact, but after a moment he relaxed and rested his forehead on Phoenix's shoulder, arms hanging limply by his sides.

"It'll be all right."

He wanted to pull Edgeworth closer, to feel his warmth and slide his hands up and hold his face, to reassure him with all the trust and admiration and love he had.

But now he knew Edgeworth didn't feel the same way.

He leaned away, moving his hands back to Edgeworth's shoulders and squeezing, and put on a bright grin. "I won't tell anyone. But please, let me know what's going on. I won't forgive you if this guy turns into a psycho and murders you."

Edgeworth swallowed hard, and to the attorney's surprise he lifted one of his own hands and placed it over Phoenix's. There was muted emotion in his eyes.

"Thank you, Wright." A slight pause, then: "Phoenix."

The ice around his heart melted a little at hearing his name. When was the last time Edgeworth called him that?

That false grin slid away into a small, genuine smile.

After all the uncomfortable silences between them, this one felt different, something warmer between them pulling them together. His breath hitched in his throat, and that little spring of hope tried to replant itself, whispering that perhaps he still had a chance.

"Okay. I'm here if you need me, Miles."

Phoenix fought with himself the whole ride home, uncertain whether he should still keep that hope alive.

Or whether he needed to let go of a dream.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Part Four**_

Edgeworth had traded a dream for a nightmare.

He sat behind his desk, surrounded by envelopes and letters and print-outs of text messages. He leafed through the stack of small photos, ones of himself as the subject, taken from a distance, taken without his knowledge, and he resisted the urge to cradle his head in his arms and slump over.

Gumshoe was late. Usually Edgeworth would be annoyed at the detective's tardiness, but at the moment he was grateful for a chance to collect his demeanor. He could scarcely afford to lose any more dignity in front of his subordinate with more embarrassed, red-faced requests, like during their meeting earlier in the week.

How had things come to this?

The answer was obvious: through foolishness and weakness. Foolishness, because he wanted something he could not have; and weakness, because he gave in to a poor, poisoned substitute.

* * *

Edgeworth remembered coming home that night a month ago, after he wrote the note and drove away, certain in the knowledge that he would never see Christopher again. Splayed out in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, he questioned himself again and again for his decision. After a night of fitful sleep he'd scheduled an appointment with his physician – one could never be too careful – and spent the rest of the weekend preparing for his next trial, trying to find solace in routine.

The first letter was in his apartment mailbox on Monday morning, plain and unassuming.

He'd hardly given it a second thought as he picked up his mail and carried it with him to his office. When his secretary brought him his tea and the morning's messages, he noticed another ordinary envelope tucked in amongst the official mail. Curious, he held the two envelopes side-by-side: they were the same, both addressed to him in the same handwriting with no return listing.

A sinking feeling settled into his stomach, as though some part of him already knew what the envelopes contained. He opened the one from his apartment first.

_Mister Edgeworth,_

_Or shall I call you Miles? You never mentioned a preference. I too had an enjoyable evening with you, and I was greatly disappointed to find you gone in the morning._

_I believe there is a connection between us, and I would like us to meet again._

_-Christopher_

Edgeworth's face turned ashen, all the blood draining from it, and he felt his heart pound with irritated fury. He had explicitly told the man it was to be one night, just once! There had been no promises, no arrangements or commitments. Christopher had seemed intelligent enough to understand such a simple constraint.

More importantly, how had the man found his home address? Information like that was kept unlisted, in case of a retaliatory strike from a suspect or criminal. He tapped his fingers on the polished wood of his desk, considering. He would need to speak with his apartment's manager to find out if the letter was delivered personally or if it arrived with the rest of the post.

…And what did he mean, _connection_?! He recalled, with his face suddenly turning a deep red, one session of intimacy followed by awkwardness. Whatever chemistry existed between them had dissipated once they resolved the tension. They hardly knew each other, had nothing substantial to talk about. He felt no compunction to 'get to know' the man any better, had no desire to pursue a relationship with him, or with anyone at all. Not until…

Edgeworth sighed, set the first letter aside and carefully opened the next, the one delivered to the prosecutor's building. He expected another short note, which there was, but it was also accompanied by a pair of tickets to an up-scale wine tasting. Frowning, he unfolded the letter.

_Miles,_

_Please accompany me tonight. I promise it will be an enjoyable evening._

_-Christopher_

Apparently the man did not understand the meaning of the word _once_. Edgeworth pushed the tickets back into the envelope along with the letter, and stashed both envelopes into his desk drawer. He had no intentions of meeting with the man again, and his absence should send the message clearly.

During his lunch hour, he questioned Hannah about the letter. It had been just a part of the general mail; no one had handed it to her in person. Down on the first floor, the mail sorter only shrugged when he asked how the letter arrived; it had been in the big cart of post, like any other letter or package. On the phone, his apartment manager referred him to the postal worker who handled the complex's deliveries, who in turn had no particular memory of _any_ of the mail she delivered. He was frustrated – it was as though a ghost had dropped the letters off to him, unseen and unnoticed.

That evening Edgeworth marked the time with his paperwork, silently noting the minutes until the time he was invited to meet with Christopher. The hour came, and went. He let out a small sigh of relief, feeling the tension in his shoulders lessen. His refusal to meet for a second time should be enough to dissuade any future correspondence. In a small display of self-comfort he closed his laptop, put away his work folders, and spent the rest of the night watching his premium collection of _Steel Samurai_ episodes, where the bad guys were obvious and the universe obeyed simple rules.

There was another letter for him the next morning.

_Miles,_

_You left me waiting and wanting last night. Are you feeling shy? Or are you just playing hard to get?_

_Perhaps my next offer will be more enticing._

_-Christopher_

He fumed the entire drive to work, intensely annoyed that the man could not take a hint. Even worse, he had no direct way to contact Christopher. He needed to be more explicit in his rejection, and the only manner in which to do so would be to meet him in person, to take him up on one of his offers. His stomach churned at the prospect.

In some strange way, what Edgeworth hated most of all was the informal manner of address in the letters. _Miles_. Few people ever called him just by his first name anymore. It was a name he left behind when he moved to Germany as a child, a reminder of all the pleasant things in his life that had been so violently torn from him. Now he was just Edgeworth, or Mister Edgeworth, or Prosecutor Edgeworth, or even Sir.

If he were called by his first name now, it was typically from condescending suspects or witnesses trying to patronize or talk down to him, like that despicable Redd White. Usually he only heard his first name paired with his last, such as when Franziska addressed him; she had called him by his full name ever since he was first introduced to her three-year-old self. With few exceptions, he preferred last names. They provided a wall of emotional distance.

To have Christopher refer to him by his first name felt like some kind of breach, like he was prodding a part of his past, a part of his heart that no one had the right to touch. There was no one with whom he could be simply 'Miles' anymore. It was a lonely thought.

But not an accurate one. His hands gripped the steering wheel reflexively. Wright still occasionally called him by his first name. And when he did, it did not feel like an unwelcome intrusion – quite the opposite.

The drive left him with a sense of melancholy, and a deep irritation.

On his office's floor, he confronted his secretary. "Is there another letter for me, Miss Fright?" His words came out more harshly than he intended, and he tried to give his secretary an apologetic look as she handed him his office mail, tapping the plain envelope on top.

The envelope tore with a satisfying rip as he opened it in his office. But any expectation of what new 'enticement' awaited him inside was shattered as two small movie tickets tumbled out.

They were for the premiere of the new _Fullmetal Samurai_ film.

Edgeworth felt a cold wave of nausea overtake him. It must be a coincidence. Surely. But he did not believe in coincidences. With slightly trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.

_Miles,_

_I look forward to seeing this with you. Perhaps you can introduce me to the whole franchise._

_I am very eager to see you again._

_-Christopher_

His eyes narrowed. Nothing in the message directly indicated that Christopher had been spying on Edgeworth. However, the wording was ambiguous enough to leave room for doubt.

Edgeworth considered what steps he should take. He believed his privacy had been violated, but he had no proof. He could file a harassment charge, but nothing in the messages presented a sufficient danger. Additionally, this was a private, personal manner. Edgeworth still remembered the rumors that circulated about him; he was a popular subject for legal gossip, even after his name was cleared. If word spread that he had a stalker, a _male_ stalker, one with whom he'd had relations, his reputation would plummet.

No. He would need to handle this personally.

At home, he composed his own letter to Christopher, which he left in his mailbox overnight.

_Christopher,_

_Your offers are flattering but unnecessary. I desire no further interactions with you. I will not meet with you. I have no wish to remain in correspondence with you._

_Do not contact me again. _

_-M.E._

His letter was still there in the morning, but opened. Did that mean Christopher had read it? Was this proof the man delivered his letters himself? As he picked up his mail, he vowed to speak with the manager about installing a security camera in the mail room.

At his office Hannah gave him a trio of new envelopes, along with a large pot of tea. He shredded his own letter as he tore into the first one.

_Miles,_

_What can I do to win you back? I want to see you again. I've never felt this way before. It was fate we met. We're meant to be together, can't you see? _

_-Christopher_

The second envelope was thicker, and as he opened it several different papers tumbled out: invitations to the theatre, art galleries, restaurant reservations, even open airline vouchers. There was no letter.

The handwriting on the third letter was a bit messier, as though it were written hastily.

_Miles,_

_Pick something, anything – I'll take you anywhere, do anything for you. Just meet me again, please. We're so good together, we're perfect._

_-Christopher_

A shudder crept up Edgeworth's spine. Christopher sounded borderline disturbing. The man had seemed so put-together, somewhat aloof and charming at the hotel. Edgeworth was beginning to sense that it had been an act, a façade to hide an overeager, clinging personality. Or one that was more desperate and dangerous than he'd anticipated.

More worrisome was the scope of the gifts. How could one person procure admission to so many different venues on such short notice? Did Christopher have connections in high places? Even Edgeworth, as a High Prosecutor, as the once most celebrated prosecutor in the nation, would be hard-pressed to acquire such a variety of invitations in a limited time. Maybe Christopher received such gifts in copious amounts, enough to stockpile and distribute on a whim? Or perhaps it was something less legitimate: the tickets could be counterfeits.

Edgeworth shook his head; probable stalking, harassment, and possible counterfeiting or some other nefarious means to goods. Christopher was accruing a list of charges, and yet he was unreachable. Or at least, Edgeworth knew of no way to contact him first, and he refused to meet under the pretense of accepting one of Christopher's offers.

He tried to recall the details of that night, specifically what little information he'd learned about Christopher himself. Edgeworth closed his eyes in thought, tapping his finger against his arm as he went through the facts one by one.

His full name was Christopher Banks. An elegant name, but also a depressingly common one.

He was an executive at Three-Fifths Bank – a vice president of business strategy, or some sort of unwieldy title. The bank might have a listing for him.

He had been drinking in the _Verona_ lounge at the Gatewater Hotel. The lounge might have a record for a credit card.

Edgeworth made a note on his laptop so that he could search for information at home. He would not let the man interfere with his work. After the day's trial, in which Edgeworth had to admit he had been more ruthless than usual, he began his pursuit in earnest.

There were several listings for _Christopher Banks_ in the Los Angeles area, and more if he extended the scope to the surrounding cities. The number expanded to several dozens if he included variations of the name, such as _Chris_ or just the initial _C_. It was impossible for Edgeworth to pinpoint which address he needed.

He could not obtain an official employee roster from the bank without a warrant. Of the likely sketchy employee listings offered by third-rate websites, which he ran the risk of contracting a virus just by browsing, none of them contained a listing for a Christopher Banks.

The staff at the Gatewater were much more forthcoming with information. Unfortunately, Christopher had paid for his drinks and other purchases in cash, and there was no record of him having stayed at the hotel.

By the time Edgeworth finally crawled into his sheets, he was exhausted and even more frustrated.

More letters followed, delivered only to his office once Edgeworth had sternly persuaded his apartment manager to install a security camera or face charges of negligence. He ignored most of them, setting them directly in his desk drawer without bothering to open them. Of the ones he did skim, they contained the same tone: desperate and pleading.

And then Wright brought one of the envelopes to him.

Over the past week his world had narrowed to trials, paperwork, and harassment. It was the first time he had seen Wright since the night of that incident, the one that led to this current predicament. Edgeworth felt that pang of longing, as he stood there staring at Wright in the doorway; here was a person he could trust, with whom he shared interests and a history, someone attractive and honest and loyal beyond measure. The very person he'd tried to put out of his mind, only to have him plague it even more.

He had tried to contain his surprise at Wright's visit, tried to deflect his friend's curiosity about the letters, tried to keep his heart beating normally. Wright had the uncanny ability to show up when Edgeworth's limits were stretched thin, or more precisely, when he most needed a friend. Despite the sudden intrusion, he had been grateful to see that goofy grin, to see those blue eyes filled with warmth.

That visit still intrigued him. Wright's behavior had been confusing – even now he was not sure if the attorney had asked him for a friendly dinner, or a date, or something in between, or if it was just his own desires coloring his memory. He remembered that look on Wright's face as he grasped the prosecutor's arm, remembered the warmth of his hand, remembered thinking about the attorney later that night, in the privacy of his own bed, and wondering if he would ever put his friend out of his heart.

After that day, the calls began.

The first time the caller identification had displayed 'unknown caller,' Edgeworth had frowned slightly. His number was state-issued; besides other government administrators, only those to whom he gave his contact information should be able to reach him. He answered, wary.

"Miles Edgeworth speaking."

"Finally, a chance to talk with you."

He knew that voice. Had heard that voice over a week ago, had heard it speak in friendly tones and heard it groan with pleasure, and to hear it now made his blood run cold. Edgeworth quickly swiveled around in his office chair, peering down through the window as though he could see the man staring up at him from the street so far below.

"…Got you speechless, I see."

Christopher's voice was mocking, no longer holding quite the pleasant quality he remembered. It sounded icier, tinted with anger.

"I told you to never contact me again."

Edgeworth could be colder, could let the fury be transparent in his reply.

There was a laugh at the other end of the line: not an open, good-natured kind of laugh, like the ones Wright or Maya Fey would often give; or an anxious laugh, like how Wright would nervously chuckle in court; this laugh was dry and sardonic, sounding not-at-all amused.

"I don't think you mean that. Don't you remember how good we were? How we talked, how we connected, how we made each other writhe and moan?"

Edgeworth felt his face heat up with embarrassment, fueling his outrage. "I don't know how you got this number, but I want you to listen to me now, closely: never call me again. Never contact me again. Stay away from me, or I will be forced to take legal action."

There was an ominous silence.

"I don't think you understand what you're giving up so quickly." The voice slipped into a lower, darker register. "But don't worry – you'll change your mind."

Christopher abruptly hung up, leaving Edgeworth staring at his phone, numb. His attempts at redialing were met with long, unanswered rings.

He received another call that evening.

"Come meet me at the Gatewater again. We'll do it just how you like it. I'll prove to you that we're meant to be together."

And another, as he was going to sleep.

"I'm waiting for you. Why aren't you here? Are you alone? Are you with someone else?"

Edgeworth hung up each time without reply.

He awoke the next morning to his phone ringing.

"Don't want you to wake up alone. I'll be sure to meet you when you're done with your trial."

Edgeworth kept his composure as he stood in the courtroom, making his objections and his arguments with meticulous calm, with icy precision. He very carefully ignored the gallery, kept his eyes and his focus on the judge and the defense and the uncooperative witnesses the attorney called to the stand. No one paid him any heed as he lingered after the guilty verdict, slowly packing his briefcase. And when Gumshoe descended from the gallery, where he'd been watching after his dismissal from the witness stand, the detective didn't think it at all strange that the prosecutor followed him to the police station.

Another call, more incensed than the previous ones.

"Do you think I'm not good enough for you? Are you so stuck-up and arrogant? Give me a chance."

And another.

"Don't be a selfish prick. I've got everything you need."

When Edgeworth finally stopped answering calls from the unknown number, he started receiving calls from different numbers, each one unidentified. The smooth, careful speech Christopher used when they first met had degraded to rough, petty taunts. The calls started coming in the middle of the night.

"I know all about you, Miles Edgeworth. I know the rumors, I know your past. I have secrets, too, things I'll only tell you."

"What was it like in Germany? _Sprichst du Deutsch_? "

"I'm thinking about you right now."

Eventually Edgeworth stopped answering his phone at all, letting his calls forward to voicemail. But he still checked his messages regularly, and still heard Christopher's voice, twisted and poisonous.

"Answer your phone. What if I was dying on the other end? What if you were dying?"

"That tea you drink is supposed to improve virility. We should test it out."

"It's that other guy, isn't it? The one you can't get out of your head. You're with him now, aren't you?"

"I'll make you forget him."

The language was coarser in the texts.

_No one can have you. No one else can fuck you._

_Is it the detective? You've known each other a long time. He'd be a big, clumsy fuck._

_Or maybe it's that lawyer. Got a savior complex? I'll save you, and fuck you, and make you mine._

_Maybe that Interpol agent. He looks rough – you like it rough? Like to beg like a dog?_

_Why don't you answer me, you whore?!_

The strain of the constant harassment was starting to take its toll on Edgeworth's health. He was losing sleep, losing focus, losing any semblance of possessing a sympathetic personality. He was snapping at coworkers, at the witnesses, his patience whittled to a mere nub. Even Gumshoe gave him more hangdog looks which, once he considered it, he hadn't seen much on the detective since he began dating Miss Byrde. He started avoiding unnecessary contact, preferring to be alone until this whole ordeal ceased.

Finally he called in to his secretary, stating that he was taking a day to work from home. He would use that day and the weekend to prepare for his next trial in peace, locked in his study with his phone out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

Of course, that would be the day Wright knocked on his door.

Like a foolish, foolish idiot, he had let Wright in. And Wright saw the text and asked for answers. How could he ignore his friend when Wright stood so close and promised his help, promised to always help him? When he looked at him with such naked concern? When all he wanted to do was pull Wright close and confess _everything_, all the fury and longing and hopelessness he felt?

How could he face Wright again?

He would never forget that look on Wright's face, when he finally divulged what happened that night – when Wright finally learned what a weak, wretched fool Edgeworth had been. He could practically see the attorney consider him in a new light, could watch the shock etch across his features. He had expected Wright to think less of him, but he had not anticipated just how disappointed in him the attorney would be.

Wright had once said he admired the prosecutor; how could he look up to a man who got himself into such a mess? Any esteem he might have had with Wright was surely eradicated. He deserved the man's scorn.

The hope he still harbored was almost thoroughly crushed, until Wright finally gave him a measure of comfort. He was ashamed at his weakness, beaten down by the harassment and Wright's disappointment. Then suddenly Wright was so close, enough to feel the warmth from his body, to smell his cotton shirt and the scent of his skin, to feel like he could breathe freely for the first time in weeks, and then Wright was grinning and reassuring him once more. Edgeworth had felt so relieved, so grateful, that he could not help but touch Wright in return, feel the warmth and strength of his hand; and his barriers were so battered he did not censure himself and he called him _Phoenix_.

And just like that Wright had smiled, soft and sincere, and his eyebrows turned up and a hopeful, nostalgic expression appeared on his face, and he called him _Miles_, and for a second Edgeworth believed everything might work out.

Two days later Edgeworth received the first photograph.

His phone had sounded its inane message alert and he picked it up, preparing for another tirade in a text. Instead he found himself looking at a picture of… himself, walking to his private garage that morning for work. Edgeworth stared unblinkingly at his phone, his mouth slightly agape, as he realized the harassment had escalated yet again.

A moment later a text message arrived.

_Up bright and early. Such a diligent worker._

The words seemed innocuous, and somehow that made them more unsettling.

More pictures arrived throughout the day, photos taken during the previous weeks. Edgeworth was the subject in each of them, doing some mundane act: walking to the courthouse, entering the prosecutor's building. Photos of him speaking with Gumshoe outside the police station; unlocking his apartment door; a particularly unnerving shot of him from his kitchen window at his sink.

Some of them were accompanied by messages:

_You speak with him for every case, don't you?_

_You look amazing. Want to fuck you in that car._

_Do you know how easy it is to pick a lock?_

Other pictures were sent alone, leaving him to ponder any deeper meaning behind them.

The next day he remembered Wright's words, quashed his pride as much as he was able, and arranged for a private meeting with Gumshoe in his office. With deep breaths and a glare that would have broken a mirror, he informed the detective of the harassment he had endured and his wish to file a restraining order.

Gumshoe had been surprisingly understanding. Though Edgeworth was certain he was blushing and that his words were harsh, Gumshoe stood straight and confident – perhaps even angry himself, since the detective had been mentioned in a few messages.

"I won't tell a soul, pal – I mean, Sir. This is private, and we'll catch them quick as we can."

The detective merely raised his bushy eyebrows when Edgeworth mentioned that the harasser, or stalker, was a man, but made no comment. Either Gumshoe did not realize the implication or he chose not to say anything, or perhaps he didn't view it as an important detail, only caring that some dirtbag was making his boss miserable in an illegal way.

"If someone was doing this to Maggey, I don't know if I could act as calm as you, Sir."

Gumshoe actually saluted him, with a determined gleam in his eye. Edgeworth would need to adjust his salary for his discretion, and his enthusiasm – and he would need to inform Wright that he had been, well, right. Gumshoe was the logical choice for assistance. He felt mildly shocked that he had been unable to reach the same conclusion; but, considering the subject and his emotional state, perhaps it could be excused.

Over the next few days Gumshoe had devoted himself to uncovering Christopher Banks' whereabouts. Edgeworth collected all the evidence sent to him – the letters, the texts, the photos – and arranged for recordings of the calls to be sent to his office.

And now, once Gumshoe arrived for their next meeting, Edgeworth could start putting all this torment behind him.

* * *

The late afternoon Los Angeles sun shone through the windows and tinted Edgeworth's office orange, and he was reminded of sunsets in Germany, where the evening light peeking between church towers in Heidelberg cast the city in a warm glow. He could be there now, nine hours into the future and six thousand miles away from the two things – the two _people_ – who had turned his life into a tumultuous mess.

He laughed, a low, bitter noise. He sounded just like Franziska during her turbulent adolescent years. Perhaps he too should pick up a riding crop or a whip and exorcise his emotions in a flurry of violent catharsis. He glanced at his phone, calculating the time difference instinctively.

She would be asleep now, or at least she should be. With the German courts lapping at her feet like a well-heeled dog, she had no need to keep awake at all hours preparing for trial. More likely, she had already arranged the perfect argument to crush her next opponent underfoot.

Even if he did phone, her sympathy would be less than kind. She'd call him a fool, of course, and chastise his vulnerability, and berate him for besmirching the von Karma name with something as base as a one-night stand. She would swear at him for even thinking about Wright; she still hadn't forgiven him for defeating the attorney before she could claim victory, even if she had been hospitalized at the time.

She would mock him for his choice, for letting his heart stray toward such a ridiculous fool. And he would only have to mention a certain blonde protégé at Lordly Tailor that she still visited from time to time, remind her that she too had a weakness for soft smiles and loyalty, and her admonishments would be cut short.

Sometimes she was more like her 'Little Brother' than she cared to admit.

Her tone would soften then, just a bit, and she would urge him to lift his head and squash any foolish stalkers under his fist. And quietly, with a note of subtle warmth heard by very few people, she would assure him that even blind, idiot, ridiculous fools could eventually find perfection.

Despite the lead block of misery weighing him down, Edgeworth felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. He would need to send Franziska a bag of those citrus sweets they both had a fondness for, in gratitude for a conversation they never had.

A loud, booming knock at his door signaled the detective's arrival. Edgeworth swung it open, eager to exchange information.

"Tell me you have good news, Detective."

But his words were met with a foreboding silence, and as he turned to the detective, he saw Gumshoe's expression fall.

"I'm afraid there's no good news here, Sir. You- You might want to sit down for this."

Edgeworth stood defiantly, staring Gumshoe resolutely in the eye, until the detective sighed and handed him a folder. As Edgeworth perused the papers inside, Gumshoe began speaking in a straightforward voice.

"The phone number you originally gave me belonged to a burn phone – cells that you can pick up for cheap with no carrier. I tracked the sale of the phone, but it was paid for in cash months ago, across the country. The other numbers you gave me were untraceable. He's probably using a call randomizer or disposable numbers for the calls and texts, which means that he's probably using just one phone now but that there's no way to track it."

Gumshoe paused, shifting his weight as he moved on to the next point.

"The photos were uploaded to his phone before he sent them to you with all the identifying information and codes stripped out. It's kind of a sophisticated thing to do."

Edgeworth glanced up from the folder, eyebrows raised high. He was impressed at the detail the detective could provide; and he remembered that Gumshoe was actually quite skilled with electronics, having built several devices on his own. If the detective were willing to transfer out of Homicide to a division more suited for him, perhaps he would suffer fewer losses to his paycheck.

He moved to his desk, spreading the folder's contents in front of him. He gestured for Gumshoe to have a seat on the sofa as he kept speaking.

"There were no fingerprints on any of the envelopes or other materials. Like you found out, there's no point-of-sale data recoverable from the Gatewater; he paid for everything with cash. We could find no credit or financial information about him. Anyplace he might have been – the hotel, the courthouse, your apartment – he doesn't appear on security footage. He's either lucky, or very smart."

"Were you able to find his address?"

Gumshoe cringed. "That's been a big problem, Sir. Without a way to get into direct contact with him, we can't serve the restraining order. The name 'Christopher Banks' leads us nowhere. There are dozens of people in the city and surrounding 'burbs that have the name, but none of them match the physical description you gave."

"What about work registration? Were you able to obtain an employee roster from Three-Fifths Bank?"

The detective suddenly looked down, idly running his hands around the sofa fabric, avoiding looking at the prosecutor. "Yes Sir. But there's no record of any employee there named 'Christopher Banks.' There's also no such title as vice president of business strategy, or any other positions sounding like that."

He paused as Edgeworth looked up, face turned grey.

Gumshoe took in a deep breath and finally looked the prosecutor in the eye.

"There's no record of the man you know as Christopher Banks. He doesn't exist."

Edgeworth could only stare at Gumshoe, the words slowly sinking in.

How could that be true? For a moment he entertained the thought that the whole situation was an elaborate gaslighting plot, that Christopher had arranged events so as to discredit Edgeworth and make him question his own sanity. It was a situation only Wright would dream up, flailing about behind the defense's bench and forming some outlandish theory to save his client. And yet, how many times had Wright's insane ideas proven true?

Gumshoe spoke up as Edgeworth was about to voice his concern.

"That- That didn't quite come out right, Sir. I'm sure he exists – someone has to be doing this to you. It's just that he's left no trace of himself. He probably isn't even named Christopher Banks."

Edgeworth just numbly nodded, considering the possibilities. He opened his laptop to refer to his own notes on the man he knew as 'Christopher Banks.'

He blinked. Normally the files on his laptop were carefully arranged, with the background a plain black or, if he were feeling unusually stressed, a calming neutral color. Now the folders were scattered haphazardly, and the background was a somewhat blurry picture.

It was the first photograph of himself that he'd received from Christopher.

Edgeworth felt his breath freeze in his throat, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly his fingers turned white.

"Detective!"

As Gumshoe hurried behind him, Edgeworth's word processing program opened without any input from the prosecutor. Edgeworth sensed the detective leaning down next to him and heard him growl with disapproval as words started appearing, letter by letter, on the blank white page.

_You can't stay away from me forever._

_I'll be waiting for you tonight._

Edgeworth remained still, waiting for more words to appear on the screen; and when nothing else happened, he slammed his laptop closed with a frightening force and pushed it toward the detective.

"Find out how he's doing that, Gumshoe."

He leaned his elbows on his desk and rested his forehead in his hands, rubbing his thumbs at his temples. A migraine was building, had been forming ever since Gumshoe first said he had no good news. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to stifle the intense fury that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Mister Edgeworth, Sir."

Gumshoe cleared his throat behind him, lingering. When Edgeworth made no reply, he drew in a big breath of his own and started speaking.

"Sir, I'll have the boys go over your laptop immediately. But if he could break into your computer…"

He trailed off as the prosecutor tilted his head, glaring at him through the corner of his eyes. Suddenly Edgeworth realized what the detective was trying to say, and his eyes widened as he let out an undignified groan.

"…He could break into my other accounts."

_Email. Financial information, bank accounts, credit cards, bill payments. Case files, court proceedings, State records. Personal information, photos, memberships, notes..._

The list was staggering.

The room began to fade slightly as Edgeworth's vision blurred, his head aching. The consequences of this violation of his privacy could be incalculable. All the anger he felt morphed into something cold and dreadful, and for the first time since the harassment began Edgeworth felt a tremor of genuine fear.

"You can use the computers at the station, Sir, to check anything you need to. It's a secure network."

Edgeworth nodded, hands balled into fists. He followed the detective out of his office and accepted a ride to the police department. While Gumshoe dropped off his laptop to the cyber division, Edgeworth looked into his online accounts.

His first priority was his email, since a breach there could potentially affect hundreds more people. Indeed, his account had been broken into; Christopher had changed his password and locked him out. The Prosecutor's Office would need to be informed and his professional contacts would be notified to change their passwords. Edgeworth would have to notify his personal contacts himself, once the police department could pull the email addresses from his laptop.

Next were his accounts with the State judicial system. Fortunately they appeared to be untampered with, his court records and case notes unmolested. At least his work was safe.

Edgeworth feared his bank accounts would be empty. Instead they had been frozen; no assets could be removed or changed. He would need to visit his bank and financier in person to sort out the mess. The same applied to his credit cards.

He rose from the computer terminal as he heard Gumshoe approach. The detective gave him a grave look as Edgeworth informed him of the damage he'd sustained.

"Sir, I hate to tell you this, but I don't think it's safe for you to go home this evening. Between the stalking photos, the hacking, and that message we both saw, I think the guy might be there tonight."

Edgeworth fought off a weary sigh. "You might have a point, Detective."

"Can you find a safe place to stay this evening? At least until we can arrange for a relocation and protection for you."

He scowled. "I have no intention of moving somewhere else."

Gumshoe's eyes widened. "But Sir–"

"I will not allow this man to interfere with my work any more than he already has." He stared hard at Gumshoe, unwilling to budge.

The detective looked down, shoulders slumping. "I can't force you to do anything, but I also can't let you go to your apartment. Me and a few others are gonna watch it tonight. If we're lucky we'll catch him there. We can spare a couple officers for security detail tonight, wherever you go."

Edgeworth frowned. He couldn't stay at a hotel; Christopher would be able to track him if he tried to use his credit cards, and he didn't have any cash on hand. The police department would need time to arrange a safe-house for him, and there was no guarantee such a place would be within the city. If he wanted to continue with his trials, Edgeworth would need to remain nearby. The most prudent option would be to stay with a friend or relative.

He tapped his finger against his arm as he considered his options. Franziska was in Germany; there was no way he could fly to another country at the moment. He had no other relatives, a painful fact he'd been reminded of every day before von Karma adopted him. Gumshoe would most likely be willing to take him in for the night, but the detective was already helping him a great deal, and he had no desire to impose on Miss Byrde.

Edgeworth mentally sifted through his remaining contacts and acquaintances, discarding each of them for one reason or another: he did not know them well enough to ask for such a favor, or they lived too far out of town, or they would be too inconvenienced.

There was only one option. Part of him knew he would reach this conclusion before he even began sorting through the people in his life; and though his affairs were an immeasurable wreck at the moment, that part of him made his heart beat faster as he made his decision.

"Detective Gumshoe," Edgeworth said, swallowing hard, "I need to make a phone call. And then I will require one more lift for this evening."

* * *

Edgeworth stood outside the door with nothing but his work briefcase in hand. Gumshoe had dropped him off, promising to keep a close eye on his apartment. Edgeworth had given him his key and a list of items to retrieve from his home in the morning, should Christopher escape their watch this evening. The security officers were parked discreetly nearby, and he'd heard Gumshoe's vehicle speed out of the parking lot a few minutes ago.

He sighed; the detective should have made sure he was safe inside before he drove away. Gumshoe was just a bit _too_ eager to get to the stakeout.

Or perhaps the prosecutor was stalling too long.

Edgeworth closed his eyes and silently counted; on three he would knock.

_One_.

All of them had agreed this was the best arrangement for the night.

_Two_.

He had no logical reason to hesitate.

_Three_.

And there was a part of him that really wanted this, the part of him that still clung to the question of _What if_.

His pulse pounding, he rapped quickly on the door and waited. A long moment later it opened.

Wright looked at him, and smiled.


End file.
